-I like "Far Cry5"and Tom Marvolo Riddle-

When you heard the word 'devil', you didn't think of sharp horns and the colour red.

Instead, your own idea of devil came in green. Your devil was intelligent and handsome, with soft, curly hair.

Your own idea of a devil was Tom Riddle.

You knew of the evil deeds he had done, how he had framed Morfin Gaunt for the murder of the Riddle family and how he had ordered his Basilisk to kill that Ravenclaw girl. You knew of the dark magic that coursed through his veins.

He was cunning and determined. He wouldn't even think twice about using people for his own needs and throwing them aside once he had what he desired.

So, why were you still here?

It was a question you didn't want the answer to, in fear of driving him away, but it was a question that you couldn't help but to repeat in your mind. You doubted Tom would be happy upon hearing that question. You doubted that he would be overjoyed at the realisation that he didn't have a valid reason to keep you around besides—

Besides...

He had wordlessly pulled you closer, with his slender hands gripping your shoulders. He pressed your body against his, and you enjoyed how it felt so right. Despite him being whoever he was, this felt right. You didn't say a word when he moved his hands from your shoulders to sneak his arms around your waist. You didn't say a word when he rested his head against yours. You didn't say a word as you returned his embrace, noticing the way he exhaled, as if being in your arms had freed him from all his burdens.

You didn't say a word because you knew this was what he needed — you.

Whenever you thought of the why, it always ended up with the same reason. The same absurd reason. It was extremely absurd of you to even think that someone like Tom Riddle would even indulge himself in love, of all things.

A part of you hoped that he would, you really hoped that he would.

The signs were there, and everyone could see it. Everyone knew how he felt about you and how you felt about him, because it was obvious.

It was easy to notice his affection towards you when you would catch him staring at you more than once. He wouldn't even look away sometimes. He always looked as if he was trying to uncover something about you, to look into you deeper and more. It was easy to notice his affection towards you when he would randomly brush away the few strands of hair away from your face with the softest touch and when he would tuck your hair behind your ear whenever you were talking.

It seemed like he didn't know why he did what he did with you. Perhaps, he knew but he was scared to acknowledge it. It was funny to you, that you knew him more than he knew himself.

You waited for the day where he would acknowledge his own feelings for you, despite how impossible that would be.

As you stared at Tom planning out his ambitions and telling you about the world he envisioned, you were reminded once again that he wasn't for you.

You loved him, genuinely. You loved the thrill you felt whenever you were with him, you loved the danger of him and you loved that he was him. You even saw him as more, the Hogwarts prodigy, the perfect knowledgeable man and the gentleman who always treated you with the best care despite the things he had done.

You saw him as what he could be.

That was your problem.

He had stopped talking, and his attention was now on his book with his other hand holding yours. Your heart jumped at the his warmth now that you acknowledged it.

You pulled away.

He looked up instantly, staring at you curiously.

"What are we, Tom?" you whispered.

He blinked. "Why do you ask?"

"Can't I?"

"You were never bothered by us," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"That was before. It was fun before but now—" you swallowed, when you noticed his eyebrows furrowed. "Now, I've grown tired of it. You have a future planned out, and I have my own too."

He closed his book loudly, leaning closer to you. You could feel irritation coming off from him.

"And just what is your future?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"The future that I see?" you whispered. "One without you in it."

"You're leaving me?" he asked incredulously.

"I love you," you said, causing him to lean back, visibly startled at the three words that you had never said to each other, despite feeling it. "I do, and I've always been by your side with whatever you do."

You took his hand in yours. "I have a bright future for myself, everyone could see it, everyone says that, and I can't have that by staying with you, Tom. You know what you do, don't you?"

His jaw clenched. "This is about what I do? Do you want me to leave them all behind, then?"

"No," you said sharply. "I'm not asking you to change for me, I've accepted that it wasn't ever going to happen. I'm saying that I'm leaving you because our paths are different."

"You've accepted that it wasn't going to happen?" he laughed cruelly. "You've lost hope for me now?"

"Perhaps, I did," you replied, standing up. This wasn't going anywhere. You were supposed to just say it and leave him. "But why should you care? I'm not here to fix you, am I? That's not the reason you keep me around, is it?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line and you raised an eyebrow. "You were expecting me to fix you?"

"I know what I do is morally wrong, yet you never stopped me," he said quietly. "It was almost as if you liked me that way."

"Because I can't stop you."

"You never tried," he replied quickly, with a hint of desperation in his voice. What was he desperate for?

"It doesn't matter now," you hissed in irritation. He was making it harder for you. Could you even consider this a breakup if you were never officially together?

You stepped closer. "It doesn't matter now because I realise that as much as I love you, I'm in love with the idea of what you could be, not what you are right now."

"You..." you whispered. "You're an evil man, Tom. I wish you weren't. I wish you were the boy that everyone sees, that my parents approved of me to be with, that Slughorn speaks so highly of. Do you know how proud I am whenever he speaks of having connections in the Ministry and wanting to help you out in the future as soon as you get out of Hogwarts?"

You laughed humourlessly. "But you don't want that."

He whispered, "Your parents approved of me? Of us?"

"Again, it doesn't matter now," you replied sharply. You turned around and approached the door. As you held the doorknob, you said quietly, "I'm sorry that this conversation had to go this way. Goodluck with your Horcruxes, Tom. I know you'll succeed in being the greatest."

"I hope..." you continued. "I hope that I won't find myself facing the end of your wand one day."

A week had passed and you were glad to say that you were doing better. You did feel miserable after leaving him for good, but you started seeing on the brighter side. He wasn't meant for you and you weren't meant for him, no matter how much you thought you could change him.

He was your type, certainly. Intelligent, bad and cunning, but having him in your life wouldn't do you any good. You certainly had a thing for the broken things, but you knew the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that he was going to stay that way.

Your friends had asked you what happened between you two. Other people did too, and even Slughorn, which was not surprising for you, considering he was Tom's biggest fan. You just chose to tell them that you both decided to take a break. You refused to tell them why.

You just hoped Tom was saying the same thing if he was asked these questions.

You did miss him, terribly. Seeing him everyday didn't help that feeling. You certainly did still love him, but you found other things to occupy yourself with, hence why you were doing better. Even when there were times you wished you never left him, it didn't matter and you didn't show it. Plus, you've always been good at pretending.

You were going to pretend until you actually feel fine and completely moved on from him, but you would catch him staring. Whenever you did, it was almost like nothing had changed. You hated that.

You weren't actually in love with him, were you?

Of course not, you loved the idea of him.

You loved that he was bad and powerful, that he was capable of things other people weren't.

You also loved that he treated you with care, listened to everything you told him and paid attention to everything you told him. You loved that he would remember things about you that you wouldn't expect anyone else to remember—Tom Riddle was never anyone else, was he?

Perhaps, you did love him, but you couldn't ignore the bad things he did and what he achieved to be.

You sighed as you closed the book you were reading. Despite that it had already been a week, not a day went by where you didn't think of him.

Weekends were usually your favourite time of the week, because you always had something planned, something to do. This week, however, something was different. Was it because most of your plans before usually involved him?

As you tucked your book under your arm, you bid goodbye to your friends, who cheerfully returned the gesture.

You noticed how their expression had suddenly changed to looking startled, how their gazes were now fixed on something behind you. You wanted to ask what was wrong, but your curiosity was answered when someone cleared their throat behind you.

When your name was uttered by the person behind you, by that certain someone, you felt that familiar feeling again. The thrill, the butterflies in your stomach and how your heart skipped a beat.

You turned around, meeting the gaze of Tom Riddle.

You noticed that you had gathered some attention from the people around you, but he didn't seem to mind. He looked at you with an unreadable expression on his face, but if you had to identify it, it would be anxiousness.

What would Tom Riddle be anxious for?

"Come with me," he said softly, stretching out a hand for you to take.

You glanced at his hand briefly and you couldn't help but to notice something was missing. Where's your ring, Tom?

"Please," he added urgently.

As you let your heart decide for you, you wordlessly took his hand.

You walked by his side through the many corridors and you were grateful to feel the warmth of his hand again, to feel his touch again. You didn't question him, you didn't want to.

To your surprise and horror, both of you stopped in the girl's bathroom.

You watched in fear as he murmured something in Parseltongue and you immediately retracted your hand as the entrance that led to Chamber of Secrets emerged. He turned to you, and you noticed that he was holding his diary in his other hand.

Your eyes flickered between the familiar entrance and him.

"I won't tell anyone about what you do," you whispered, stepping back.

He quickly held onto your wrist before you could take another step. "I'm not here to harm you. I would never even try to."

"Then why are we here?"

He slowly slid his hand down from your wrist to your hand, before letting it go and stepping closer to the entrance. "For you to change your mind."

He jumped down and you hurriedly stepped forward, watching his figure disappear into the darkness.

You were terrified, but your trust in him overpowered that fear.

You jumped.

You had clung onto him all the way to the Chamber, hands curled into fists and gripping onto his coat. Despite being here two to three times before with him, the pathway that led you to the Chamber would still scare you. You still remembered how you had jumped on Tom the first time you saw the Basilisk's shredded skin, thinking it was the actual thing. You also remembered how he had caught you effortlessly and tried his best to calm you down. Your heart jumped at the memory.

This was not how you expected your Sunday would go. What you expected was a Tom Riddle-less and Chamber of Secrets-less Sunday. Anything but your current situation.

You couldn't even stop the negative thoughts that were clouding your mind at the moment. He could easily kill you and leave you here, and no one would find you. He never harmed you before, and he just said that he would never even try, but you weren't together anymore. Things were different now.

Once again, you were pathetically hoping that he would change.

You let go of his coat once you both had entered the Chamber, slowly walking beside him now and resting a hand on your wand.

"Don't be so tense," he said, with a hint of amusement in his voice that got you offended.

"This is funny to you," you pointed out in disbelief.

"You have nothing to be afraid of. As long as I'm here, you have nothing to be afraid of," he said softly, with his voice now devoid of humour.

"You're not going to kill me?" you whispered, feeling slightly ridiculous now saying it out loud.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, as if you had just said something offensive to him. Perhaps it was indeed offensive.

"Is that what you think of me now?"

"I would dispose of me, if I were you."

"Fortunately for me, you are not me," he said, before looking at where you knew the Basilisk would be resting. "You know what to do, don't you?"

Despite your fear, you obeyed and immediately stood in front of him, facing him. "Why?" you asked urgently, afraid.

"I'm not letting it out for you," Tom murmured. "Please don't be so afraid."

You swallowed, once again placing your trust in him. You lowered your head and closed your eyes. Now that you had blocked out one sense, your hearing was heightened.

Tom was saying something in Parseltongue, and you heard the sound of the stone moving distantly behind you. You couldn't help but to step forward to where Tom was and grip onto his coat once again. You felt his hand on your back, rubbing it softly as an attempt to comfort you.

You heard something moving behind you and you wanted nothing more than to leave. Knowing that a historical beast was moving behind you, living, while you had your eyes closed was frightening.

Tom would protect you, right?

He said something in Parseltongue again and there was a few seconds of silence before he finally talked to you again.

"You can look now."

You slowly pulled away, hands still gripping onto his coat and lifted your head up to look at him, receiving a reassuring look in return. You turned around, flinching as soon as you set your eyes on the Basilisk, which had its deadly eyes closed.

"And why..." you swallowed. "Why is it here?"

"You said to me that..." he started, causing you to look back at him. "You told me that you love me."

You blinked, startled. "I did."

"Do you, still, love me?" he asked softly.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Because I love you."

You sputtered and let go of him in surprise. "What are you trying to do?"

"Stay with me. Come back to me," he said, almost desperately. "Come back to me and I will leave everything behind. In fact, right now—this diary, my very first Horcrux, I will destroy it right here."

He said desperately, while holding up his Horcrux to show you. "I can be what you want me to be, just come back to me."

"This is quite rushed," you said softly. "Why are you giving up your dreams for one person? What happens when you regret it?"

"I won't regret it," he said firmly, jaw clenching. "You are not just one person. You're my person, who stayed with me throughout everything, made me feel the things I didn't expect to feel and—you understand me more than anyone else."

"So, please," he whispered. "Tell me... do you still love me?"

You nodded. "With my whole heart."

"Can I be yours—again?"

You nodded again, unable to find any words.

He looked down at his diary, with his thumb softly caressing the cover, treating his soul so lovingly.

"You said your parents approved of me," he whispered. "I couldn't stop thinking about that. I also couldn't stop thinking about how... how you said you love me. It hurt me when you said that you hoped you wouldn't be facing the end of my wand one day. It hurt me that it even crossed your mind. It hurt me more that—if I continue on this path, there's a possibility that that might happen."

"One whole week without you," he continued. "It made me feel like how life was before I met you—empty. I always thought having power would fill that void, but it seemed that... it only widened it."

"Until you," he said, looking back up at you. "I never felt empty with you, I realised."

He then threw the book behind you, causing you to turn around and look at where it landed, right in front of the Basilisk. You almost jumped, as you had forgotten that the beast was still there.

"The Basilisk's venom is quite deadly," he stated, looking at his diary on the floor. "Tell me this is worth it."

You turned to him and told him the truth without hesitation. "It's worth it, Tom. We're worth it."

You looked up at him longingly, and placed a hand on his cheek, loving the way his eyes fluttered at your touch. He then spoke in Parseltongue for the Basilisk, despite still looking at you.

You heard the movements behind you, and you refused to look. You found that it was better to look into his eyes, until—

"Tom?!" you exclaimed, when he fell forward to you and groaned in pain.

You tried to hold him up, and you gasped as he fell to his knees, still moaning in pain.

"Tom!"

"It's—" he choked out. "The soul—"

You bit your lip, feeling useless now knowing that there was nothing you could do to ease his pain. Seeing him in pain was a new sight to you and you hated how it hurt your heart to see him like this, the usually composed Tom Riddle, kneeling on the floor in pain.

You chose to pull his head to your shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck in hopes that your embrace would make him feel better.

It wasn't until a few moments later you realised that he wasn't groaning in pain anymore, only letting out heavy breaths on your shoulder. He lifted his head, resting his chin on your shoulder as he said something in Parseltongue. Behind you, you heard a movement, then water splashing slightly and finally, the sound of the stone again. The Basilisk was gone now.

You pulled away and cradled his face gently. He looked at you tiredly and wrapped his fingers around your wrists.

"I've already destroyed the ring yesterday," he said softly, with his thumb caressing the back of your hand affectionately. "The diary was the last one. I wanted to be with you when destroying it, especially after finding out how painful it was."

Your eyes burned and you blinked your eyes several times. You couldn't help the tears that pooled up in your eyes. You tried so hard to pretend that you were completely over him, but then your sweet devil came back to you, declaring his love and now, you were both kneeling in front of each other, holding each other so lovingly.

"You're mine again," you chuckled, as a tear fell from your eye.

"I am," he confirmed.

You sniffled and laughed, earning a small smile from him.

"I've missed your touch," he whispered. "It always feels right being touched by you. It makes me feel..."

"Loved?" you supplied.

"Loved," he nodded, seemingly coming to terms with it. "Do you feel the same way?"

"All the time, with you."

He licked his lips. "Tell me—what is your future?"

You tilted your head, brushing his hair back gently. "One with you in it."

He sighed in relief, as his hands found their way to your waist to pull you closer. When he pressed his lips against yours and moved them passionately, you agreed wholeheartedly, it felt right.

When he pulled away, he didn't hesitate to rest his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed, finding comfort in your embrace. You smiled to yourself, seeing your devil in such vulnerability that only you could see.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The address she’d given you is right in the north end of Diagon Alley, you’d recognised whereabouts you’re heading from the second you read it. 6:45 sharp! Hepzibah’s letter had said, which normally wouldn’t be a problem except you’d only opened the bloody thing at 6:30 when you’d finally gotten through the door and sat down at your kitchen table. So much for dinner.

You increase your pace over the sounds of your rumbling stomach, turning your shoulders to avoid knocking into a broad wizard marching in the opposite direction and peering at the shiny brass numbers on the shop doors. You’re panting, but it’s already nearly 7 and you’re still a good block away.

Great first impression, you think grimly. This lady’s definitely hiring me again.

It’s not like the Ministry doesn’t pay well, they pay just fine, but everything is getting pricier and pricier these days and it’s not like you can lean on your family for money, or god forbid find a rich spouse. Watching people’s kids is an easy gig most of the time anyway – you can bring your case files, sit in someone else’s lounge and drink their tea whilst you do your work and their children sleep next door. You’re get paid to do exactly what you’d be doing at home by yourself anyway – albeit with a couple extra bedtime stories and hand-held bathroom trips thrown in.

You skid to a stop outside Flourish and Blotts – it’s exactly two numbers down from the address in your hand, and backtracking a bit, you spy a forest green door a little down the side of the building with two brick steps leading up to it. You tuck Hepzibah’s note into your pocket and – after glancing at the gleaming numbers above the letter slot – knock three times.

There’s instant commotion. A door slams somewhere up above and then rapid footsteps descend louder and louder until the green door is wrenched open and a figure leans out and says quite breathlessly, “Yes?”

You stare at him. He’s no more than a few years older than yourself and a fair few inches taller, and dressed in tidy black robes above a very flattering suit of deep blue. His thick black hair has been jostled from what might have once been a very tidy style, falling in errant waves across his forehead above dark eyes and the sort of face that would catch your attention from across the street. He’s fiddling with his collar with long, elegant fingers, fastening a little gold pin from one point to the other that leaves a tiny gold chain suspended over his dark tie. He looks rather frazzled.

“Uh,” you say, derailed. He’s not at all what you’d been expecting – but then again, you’d been told next to nothing. “Is this seventy-two B? Hepzibah said to –”

He nods and waves you inside. “Yes! Thank God… Come in, you’re late – Julia!” And with that he’s already hurrying back up the stairs.

You shuffle in after him and pull the door shut, peering up the narrow wooden staircase where you just glimpse his shiny black shoes disappearing through the door at the top. You can hear his voice from the room beyond, a smooth, medium-toned drawl that’s pleasant to listen to even when he’s clearly harried. You scend a little nervously, and peer curiously into his home at the top.

The room is a broad but cluttered rectangle with a low ceiling, the kitchen to your left and the lounge to your right with a doorless hallway opposite you. The walls are a warm, pale yellow supported by thick, dark wooden beams, the arched leaded windows have lush plants resting on their sills, and an intricate carpet sprawls across the right half of the floor. A low coffee table separates a tall, brick hearth from a long brown couch, and a half-played game of chess resting on its surface. Books are everywhere, packed onto countless shelves, stacked on the mantelpiece, and resting on the burnished kitchen table that sits in the far corner beneath a tiny east-facing window that must catch the morning sun. The kitchen tiles are a deep terracotta below pale green cabinets and a formidable, heavy looking oven of black iron. The handsome man is crouching before the couch where a very small girl is perched with a book half the size of her whole body open in her lap, his hands on hers as he talks to her in a quiet voice and her head nodding back at him.

“She’s already had dinner,” he says to you, standing. He picks up a leather bag from the couch before immediately starting to search around for something else. “Bed by eight, don’t worry about a bath, she can have a shower in the morning… Do not give her apple juice, and please make sure she actually brushes her teeth” – he pauses his search and looks at you in a moment of clarity, his hair still in disarray – “She’s been known to stand at the sink with the tap running and just make the motions, sometimes it tricks people.”

You glance at the girl as he resumes his haphazard rummaging. She can’t be more than five or six, wearing thick, square, black-rimmed glasses with her long curly hair – a bronzy shade of golden brown – plaited down her back and softly flying away around her face. The second you look at her she lowers her gaze to her book, less like she’s shy and more like her appraisal of you has been interrupted by your notice.

“I’ll be back by eleven,” says the man, shoving a book under his arm from a desk in the corner that you nearly hadn’t noticed for it being so overrun by books and parchments. He places a hand on the girl’s hair, leans down and kisses the crown of her head, and then takes three long strides to the hearth and seizes a handful of Floo powder. At the last second he hesitates, looking over his shoulder at you still standing stock-still at the door. “Help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen, and – thank you. I know it’s short notice,” he adds. There’s a reluctance to his sheepishness; you get the feeling he’s not the sort of person who likes to be running around on short notice at all.

“That’s alright,” you say quickly, stepping forward a little and then feeling silly for having done so.

He nods, casts one final look at his daughter, and then he’s gone in a whip of green flames.

The room delves into near silence except for a light ticking from a small wood-and-brass clock on the wall, and a papery rustle as Julia turns over one of the massive pages. She’s looking down at the book very solemnly with her spine dead straight – but she’s swinging feet a little where they’re dangling off the couch, and you get the impression that she’s putting on the air of high-brow, adult-like seriousness.

“Hello,” you say, suppressing a smile as you step closer.

“Hello,” she says with a long nod, as if welcoming you to a meeting.

You sit down beside her. “You’re Julia?”

She nods again, not looking up.

“What are you reading?”

“It’s a tome,” Julia informs you airily, expression grave.

You bite your lip. “A tome?”

“It’s Dad’s.”

“Hmm. It looks interesting.” Between the thick lines of text are little illuminated drawings of dragons that breath swirls of orange flames up the margins, and one or two hoards of glittering treasure with jewels that glimmer in the soft candlelight.

“You can read it when I’m done,” says Julia with a serious little sigh, turning the page again.

“Well thank you,” you say, unable to hold back your grin. So far, Julia is a truly captivating child. “How about you keep reading that for another half hour and then we get ready for bed?”

At this, Julia’s warm brown eyes meet yours, magnified a little larger by the lenses of her glasses. “You’re not going to make me stop?”

You blink. “Why would I make you stop?”

“Madam Hepzibah brings me dolls,” Julia says emphatically. “She makes me play with them over there, and she doesn’t like it when I read because the sound annoys her when she’s writing her letters.”

“The sound?”

Julia takes a page in her hand and wobbles it back and forth, staring at you intently.

“Well I didn’t bring you any dolls,” you say, a little aghast. “And I think pages make a nice sound.”

She watches you for a moment, and then returns to her tome. “Me too,” she says simply.

“That’s a relief,” you smile, setting down your bag on the floor and standing, peering around the near-library of a living room. “Do you think your father would mind if I read one of his books, too?”

“They’re our books,” Julia exclaims immediately.

Her look of hurt is enough to tell you that this distinction is very important to her, and it makes you wonder if maybe this is something her father has said to her before – that these aren’t his things, but theirs. It makes you backtrack at once. “I’m sorry,” you tell her sincerely. “That was rude of me.”

Julia assesses you again, and you wait patiently for her to speak. “He wouldn’t mind,” she seems to decide. “Just don’t fold the corners, he gets cross when I do that.”

“Of course,” you promise solemnly.

Not that it ends up mattering – you get so distracted craning your head this way and that at all the endless titles that half an hour passes quite quickly and you’d not cracked a single book open. Julia closes the tome when you prompt her, sliding it off her lap and leaving it on the couch cushion as she hops down and stands there, staring at you like she’s awaiting instruction.

“Well let’s go then,” you prompt, waving your hand at the hallway. “First step is getting your pyjamas on.”

She wheels around and marches off, leading you down the hall past two closed doors and into a third. It’s a very tiny bedroom that, instead of colourful toys, is filled with framed butterflies pinned to black velvet, a terrarium of various slimy reptiles, a miniature potions kit in the corner with a little grey cauldron trailing purple smoke, and on the dresser, a fully articulated skeleton of a runespoor snake.

“This is my room,” Julia declares, grabbing a set of pink pyjamas off her bed and taking off her glasses. “These are my artefacts.”

“I like your miltoad,” you say, peering into the terrarium where a squat brown toad-like creature sits beside a puddle of duckweed with a very fat ruby growing out of his forehead.

“His name is Aslan.”

You glance at her, surprised. “Like from the book?”

She nods, tugging down her little top and pulling her braid out from her collar.

“You read Muggle books, do you?”

“I like them, I like the ones about magic.” She’s trying to unbraid her hair, but her fingers are getting stuck in the tangles. You pick up a wide-toothed wooden comb from her bedside table and sit down on her bed, and Julia automatically turns to stand between your knees as you gently start to work through her curls. “Muggles have funny ideas about magic. Half of it’s right, and half of it’s… nonference.”

“Nonsense,” you supply.

“Exactly,” she nods sagely.

“Well I think Aslan is a spectacular name for a miltoad,” you tell her honestly.

“Dad said, if I’m good tonight, he’ll take me to the park and I can look for another one.”

You set the comb down and begin to braid her hair again for bed. “You found him yourself?”

“They lay eggs at the new moon, and everyone thinks you should go then, but if you go down the week after you can tell which of them will be the biggest. That’s how I got Aslan. Did you know their eggs are called spawn? They stick to jinxwood in the water, so you have to get wet to find them. I always wear my gumboots to the park, Dad says its pro… per… precautionary –”

Your smile as she continues her speech is fond and very real, it’s hard not to love her a little already.

You stand beside the sink with her as she brushes her teeth (no tricks pulled, so far as you can tell), you ignore her very serious assertion that her father always lets her have a square of chocolate before bed, and then she’s letting you pull the warm, squared duvet up over her shoulders and dimming the lamp at her bedside to a faint glow.

“On or off?” you ask quietly.

“Off…” she says, sounding sleepy already and snuggling up with what you’re pretty sure is a plush Quintaped.

“Alright. Goodnight, Julia.”

“Goodnight…”

You leave the door open a crack as you sneak out into the hall and back to the lounge, collapsing on to the couch and wondering if her father was serious about you being able to eat from the kitchen – you still haven’t had dinner, after all.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

When the clock on the wall gives a single, demure chime at 1 in the morning, you throw down your quill and sigh. Honestly, your report is long finished – Ardit Troubadour has faked so many robberies on his own store for compensation that you’d expect him to be better at it by now, and you’re just fiddling with useless details. Drowsiness is starting to get the better of you, and you’re starting to wonder if you should write to someone about where in Merlin’s name Julia’s father has ended up. Hepzibah’s letter had told you where to go, how many kids you’d be watching, and how much you’d get paid but not, critically, a name.

You’ve been concerned since 11:30, worried since 12, and in the last hour you’re beginning to regret racing out your door for a job with so few details. Muggles have a phrase for this, Monty’s law – no, Milford’s law – something like that, you’re too tired to think clearly.

The room suddenly flares green and with an airy WHOOMP of flames, Julia’s father steps back into the room.

“I’m so sorry,” he says hastily, lifting an apologetic hand as he shrugs off his cloak, bag in one hand. “I had no idea it would go on that late or I would have warned you.”

Fatigue looks very good on him – there’s a shadow on his cheeks and a rumpledness to his robes that he wears as if intending to seem artfully dishevelled, and his dark eyes look all the darker for the purplish circles left beneath them, rendering his gaze heavy and intense in a way that makes your breath catch in your chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” you insist, standing and stretching. “Julia’s asleep, we didn’t have any trouble – and don’t worry, I witnessed the teeth-brushing with my own two eyes.”

He laughs under his breath, hanging his cloak on a hook beside the brick hearth and laying his bag across the book-heavy desk. When he slides his hands into his trouser pockets you have to actively prompt yourself to stop staring at him, seizing your report off the coffee table and shoving it into your bag.

“Oh – here –” says the man, reaching into the pocket of his cloak behind him and drawing out a coin pouch. When he hands you three Galleons, you look up at him in shock.

“The note said two Galleons and five –”

“It’s very late,” he says calmly. This close to him, the situation is only more dire – he has straight, coal-black lashes decorating his eyes and a soft lilt to his mouth that you’re trying to avoid looking at too much. “Consider it part of the apology.”

“Alright,” you hear yourself agreeing with him, before kicking yourself for not protesting more. “But really, it’s no trouble. Julia’s amazing.”

Her father smiles, his eyes dropping, and you watch with warm cheeks as he steps away and glances towards the hallway. “That she is,” he agrees in a soft voice. The warm firelight catches the elegant angle of his cheek and casts his throat in relief where he’s looking away from you, and you wheel around before he notices you staring.

“Well – goodnight, and thanks for –” You raise your hand with the coins in it and immediately stumble a little as you back towards the door. “Goodnight,” you say again, cheeks burning.

“Goodnight,” comes his polite reply.

You throw a brief smile over your shoulder before heading down the stairs in a last-ditch attempt to save face but he’s not even looking your way anymore, and the last you see of him is his dark head turned back towards the hallway, still standing there beside the coffee table with his hands in his pockets, surrounded by his books.

The forest green door clicks shut behind you and you pull out your wand to Apparate home, and it’s not until you’ve flung yourself onto your bed that you realise that in your state of exhausted captivation at the man, you still hadn’t asked him what his bloody name is.

Groaning, you turn your face into the pillow, forlorn.

Merlin.

At least it was over.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The letter comes a week later, script like something off a fifteenth-century scroll written on smooth, cream-toned parchment in ink the colour of the sea water on a dark night.

He’s asking if you’d like to watch Julia again next Friday. He says he promises it’ll only be for a few hours this time.

He signs it T. M. Riddle.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 :