She stared into a pair of silver eyes that belonged to a man no older than thirty—at least, by appearance.
What returned her gaze was no young man, though.
Something ancient stirred behind those eyes. Restless. Impossibly knowing. Timeless.
He was otherworldly, yet grounded just enough to seem human.
Except for the deliberate, almost calculated blink of his eyes, he could have been mistaken for a portrait. Still and lifeless. A masterpiece. Ethereal, as though he had been carved from marble rather than born of flesh. His alabaster skin gleamed, untouched by the sun for what seemed like centuries.
His lips, pale and thin, were set in an expression of perpetual detachment, as if caught in the liminal space between disinterest and melancholy.
He was beautiful—a beauty laced with sorrow, with ruin, with the weight of eternity spent watching the world crumble and rebuild itself. Ethereal, yes—but in a way that whispered of something not meant to linger in the realm of mortals.
The tailored folds of his smooth robes rustled softly as he crossed his legs. His movements were unnervingly fluid, unnatural—like water shaping itself to the vessel that held it. Molten silver eyes flicked briefly to the cross dangling around her neck. Too quick for any ordinary human to notice, his pupils darted to her pulse point.
“So,” she said, breaking the preternatural silence, her voice sharp against the stillness, “you claim to be a vampire. Gotta say, people have come up with more creative ways to have me record their life stories.”
The smile he offered in return was feline, predatory—something honed over lifetimes.
She tilted her head to the side, her finger trailing absently over the silver cross resting against the hollow of her throat. “This offends you, then?”
He mirrored her movement, his head angling in the same predatory tilt. The gesture was more animal than human. A flicker of amusement lit his eyes, sharp and cold.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked, his voice light, yet laced with quiet intensity.
The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “No. Do you?”
“No, I do not, child.” His pale, long fingers interlaced on his lap, a deliberate motion that exuded patience—the kind only centuries could teach. His gaze rested on her, unyielding yet strangely calm. Then he continued, his voice soft as silk, each word a note in a melody that thrummed through the quiet room. “There must be something you hold to. What is it? Humanity? The pursuit of art or science? Perhaps the promise of heaven—or the fear of hell?”
For the briefest moment, his voice caught—a nearly imperceptible hitch that broke the surface of his composed demeanor. Agitation layered his words, subtle but undeniable. She felt it, like the faintest ripple of unease pressing against her. It made her pause.
“I thought this was about me asking you questions,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow in defiance. Her gaze flicked to the recorder and notepad resting between them on the table. Her voice, steady and measured, seemed to stretch the silence even further.
He didn’t answer immediately. The quiet that filled the space wasn’t passive; it was heavy, thrumming with something unseen. Then, finally, he leaned forward.
“Think before you answer,” he murmured, his lips parting ever so slightly, as though he could taste the hesitation in the air, feel her thoughts lingering just beyond his grasp—like a familiar scent on the breeze, elusive and just out of reach.
Something in his voice compelled her—a soft, melodic undertone that swept over her like the caress of gentle waves. The words weren’t a demand, but they clung to her, weaving through the silence like a spell. And against her better judgment, she found herself answering.
“I... I believe in…” she began, her gaze locked on his, “the quiet things. Like the way a mother holds her child.” She hesitated, the weight of her own words grounding her. “Like the way rain sounds as it hits an old rooftop. The pages of a book worn thin by too many hands. I believe in the ache of longing and the courage to let go. I believe in the way light always returns to the sky after the darkest night. I believe in the stories we tell—not to escape the world, but to understand it. And in the power of kindness to ripple outward, even in the face of cruelty.”
Something flickered across his face, a shadow of emotion too fleeting for her to catch. When he straightened, it was with a precision that bordered on primal, his every movement steeped in an unnatural elegance. Predatory.
“And maybe…” she continued, her voice softening, “I believe in love. Not the perfect kind, but the kind that changes you, breaks you, and teaches you how to rebuild. Most of all, I believe in choice. The quiet rebellion of choosing compassion in a world so consumed by greed.”
She paused, the silence between them thick and electric. Holding his unflinching gaze, a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.
“That’s what I believe,” she finished, leaning forward slightly. “Though sometimes, it feels like believing in those things is the hardest rebellion of all.”
His gaze pinned her in place, a faint shimmer of agitation breaking the surface of his composure. He didn’t move, but the intensity of his stillness made him feel more alive. She leaned closer, propping her elbows on the table between them.
“And what do you believe in, vampire?”
He mirrored her movement, leaning forward, the candlelight flickering between them illuminating his features. What she saw sent a chill racing down her spine. His face was a canvas of torment and suffering, his silver eyes swirling with hunger and yearning.
“What’s your name, child?” His voice dropped lower, curling around her like smoke. The compassion in it was so unexpected, so disarming, that she instinctively leaned in further. And that was when she smelled him—a faint, intoxicating trace of something she couldn’t quite place.
“Granger. Hermione Granger.”
“Hermione Granger,” he repeated, tasting her name, shaping it with care. His lips stretched into a smile, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the sound. “I believe in one thing alone, Miss Granger,” he said, his voice taking on a subtle, almost dangerous edge. “An endless, insatiable hunger. Shameful. All-consuming. A hunger that devours and destroys. For power. For love. For life itself. It is the curse of eternity—to want and want, yet never to be sated.”
His sinfully red lips curved into a wicked smile, and the light from the candle cast sharp shadows across his face, making him look every bit the monster he claimed to be.
“So dramatic, isn’t it?” she quipped, leaning back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. Her tone was light, but her eyes stayed sharp on him. “Any more questions before we begin?”
“Ah,” he sighed, his voice carrying the weight of ages. He leaned back as well, mirroring her posture, though the distance he created between them felt calculated, deliberate. Strands of platinum-blond hair fell just slightly out of place, softening the otherwise flawless symmetry of his appearance. The effect was striking—his face framed like a halo, though his presence was anything but angelic.
“What is your understanding of immortality, Miss Granger?” he asked at last. “What force, do you suppose, compels a man to forsake the natural order and embrace eternity?”
“Immortality offers the illusion of mastering time,” she began, her tone measured, thoughtful. “It’s a god-like fantasy—the idea that you can transcend the fleeting nature of life, that you can escape its boundaries. It’s driven by power, by control, or maybe just an insatiable curiosity. But I imagine most people underestimate what it costs.”
Her gaze flicked to him, steady and unflinching. “In the end, the desire for immortality is as human as mortality itself—a reflection of our flaws, our fears, and our relentless need to reach for something beyond ourselves.”
The air around him shifted, a palpable darkness emanating from his very being. It pressed against the walls, heavier, suffocating. “Curious,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
A pause stretched between them, taut as a bowstring, while he studied her. Finally, he leaned forward again, the candlelight catching on the sharp angles of his face.
“Tell me, child, would you lay down your life for those you love?”
“Yes.” The word left her lips without hesitation, and she watched as his smile deepened, widening with delight.
“To what lengths would you go to shield them?” he continued, his words languid yet pointed. “And tell me–if it came to it, would you choose to live for them? To endure a fate worse than death, not for your own sake, but for theirs?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but his hand rose, stopping her.
“And what of a man,” he began, his voice soft but weighted with something vast and unspoken, “who takes on eternity not for ambition, but as a last, desperate act? A curse borne of love, of duty.” He tilted his head slightly, his silver eyes sharp and questioning. “Do you think such a story merits telling, Miss Granger?”
Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as if the very air between them had thickened. Every muscle in her body tensed as his gaze held hers, impossibly sharp, impossibly knowing. It was as though he could hear her every heartbeat, feel the blood rushing through her veins.
“Prove it,” she managed to say, her voice tight.
The sound that broke from his chest was a laugh, dark and full of something ancient. It rippled through the air, vibrating through the too-small apartment.
“Do me a favor, child,” he said, his smile twisting into something darker, something more sinister. “Whatever you do… do not run.”
Before she could react, the world around her plunged into chaos. Darkness exploded in the room, thick and all-consuming, a night as black as hell itself. And then came the sound—the deafening screech of a thousand wings, battering the air. He was night itself. And night was him. The two merged, blending until shapes and hues bled into one another, an impenetrable void that swallowed everything.
It seeped into her very soul, awakening a yearning long buried—one that had slept for twenty-six years, only to stir now, ignited by the rawest form of him. It unraveled the fabric of her reality, shattering every semblance of logic and reason, leaving only the truth of the moment. It defied every logical thought.
As suddenly as the chaos had erupted, silence crept back into the empty flat in the heart of London.
And then, as though reality itself had reshaped to allow him, he was before her again. Staring at her with eyes that withheld a depth so vast it seemed to stretch beyond the stars, beyond even the night sky itself. The smile he flashed her was the smile of a fallen angel—beautiful, dangerous, and impossibly tragic.
“What name do you go by, vampire?” Her voice was barely a whisper, yet it reached him effortlessly, as though she had spoken it directly into his ear.
He tilted his head slightly, a dark gleam in his eyes. “I go by many names, child. But you may call me Draco.”