˖ † ׄ ˳   𝗔 𝓗𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬 𝓟𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡  ✶ ۫
｡⋆ ౨ৎ ⋆｡‧₊°♱༺  𓆩 ❦ ︎𓆪  ༻♱༉‧₊˚. ౨ৎ⋆｡

❛ i know that you heard me but
you don't want the same thing ❜

I wanted her in ways that weren't human, in ways that would ruin us both. I wanted her so completely that I could taste the blood she bled and feel it staining my own hands. Her skin, so soft, so delicate—nothing was meant to be touched like that, yet I did, and I felt it tear something deep inside me. I didn't care if it broke me. The pieces would be better shattered than left whole. She was a secret too dark to be told, and I was the liar who would wear it.

Her heart, beating beneath my fingers, was the only thing that mattered. I could crush it in my hands, devour it whole, and it still wouldn't be enough. There was nothing pure about what I wanted from her, nothing kind. I wanted her unraveling. I wanted her ruined. And when I held her, when I pulled her closer until her breath came in gasps against my neck, I knew she was already lost.

In the dark, I could almost hear her cry out. It wasn't for help. It wasn't for mercy. It was the sound of surrender—of being consumed, slowly, painfully, willingly. I didn't care what came after. I didn't care that it would all burn. What mattered was that she burned with me. That we both fell into the same flame, knowing it would never let us rise again.

i was born for you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

HANNIBAL ❪ CONT'D ❫:
i let you in. i let you know me. i let you see me.

WILL GRAHAM:
you wanted to be seen.

HANNIBAL:
by you. a rare gift i've given you .

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

WILL GRAHAM
is hannibal in love with me?

BEDELIA DU MAURIER
could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you and find nourishment in the very sight of you? yes.
(then)
but do you ache for him?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

HANNIBAL ❪ 2013-2015 ❫

𝕾UMMARY ❜ Ꞌ ✶ can a heart
still break once it's stopped beating ?

──────────────────────────────────
LONDON 21 DEC, 1927     No.17
──────────────────────────────────
BORN SILENT : PERSEPHONE CHAMBERS
AND THE ENIGMA OF LIFE WITHOUT A HEART

❛    No pulse. No heartbeat. Only silence    ❜

                                  The first thing you realize when you're born into a world of shadowed privilege is that nothing truly belongs to you. Not the blood that pulses through your veins, not the land beneath your feet, and certainly not the life you're handed. It's a game of inheritance, played by rules that were forged long before you even took your first breath. Persephone Chambers knew this truth intimately. The weight of her last name, the echo of her family's triumphs and failures alike, pressed down on her shoulders from the moment she could understand the weight of it. Her existence, woven into the tapestry of ancient bloodlines, meant she was a part of something bigger, something older. But she had never asked for it. Her parents hadn't asked for her either. Their marriage—a contract sealed by politics and power—was a shadow of affection, but it didn't stop Persephone from being born. She was the last tether that bound them together, and yet, she knew her presence didn't bring the happiness they imagined for themselves. She was only a girl in their twisted play of obligations and expectations.

It was 1927, a cold winter night in an isolated manor far from the bustling streets of London, when Persephone was born. Her mother, a woman named Celestia, had screamed into the night, her voice lost among the trees. Persephone's birth was a violent one, pulling her into the world with the weight of the curse that had already been stitched into her very existence. The doctors who attended her birth whispered in hushed tones about the child's strange nature. Even as a newborn, Persephone's skin was too pale, too cold to the touch. No warmth radiated from her tiny body, no heartbeat echoed in her chest. Her parents could only watch as the midwife cleaned her, her skin like wax, too still to be considered life, too silent to be called a miracle.

Her father, Pascal, once said she was born without a soul. Not as an insult, but a cold statement of fact, delivered with the precision of a knife. Her mother, brittle and beautiful as porcelain, had flinched at those words but said nothing to contradict him. Their home was full of that kind of silence—the kind that smothered truths under layers of decorum and duty.

                                  By the time she was six, she had learned to see the truth hidden in others, the thing no one dared admit even to themselves. At first, it frightened her, this ability to see the invisible parts of people, but with time, it became something more. It was as if she had learned to read the very pulse of humanity. She didn't look at faces or eyes, not in the way others did. She looked deeper—straight through to the hearts of people. She could see their fears, their longings, the hidden corners where their pasts clung like rust to forgotten metal.

Her father's heart, for example, was a massive, cracked thing, each fracture a monument to his ambition. It beat unevenly, like a machine that had long since begun to sputter and die. His was a heart of stone, shaped by cold, relentless pursuit. It was a heart that had no place for tenderness. It only had room for calculation.

Her mother's heart, on the other hand, was fragile—a thing of paper-thin layers, pressed and worn from years of sacrifice. She could almost see it fraying at the edges, as though it was constantly being tested, pulled apart by the weight of expectations. It was a heart that longed for escape, for release, but could never find it.

Everyone had a heart, each one a story etched in the pulse of veins and the beat of blood.

Everyone except her.

She learned this young, too—there was nothing inside her chest but silence. No warmth, no rhythm, no ache. When she pressed her hand over her ribs, all she felt was absence. At first, she wondered if it was normal, if maybe other people had nothing in their chests, too, but she quickly learned better. Others spoke of love and anger and grief as if those feelings were rivers running through them, impossible to stop. Persephone could see those rivers in others—flowing, raging, twisting—but she could never feel them herself.

It was a strange thing, to know the hearts of everyone around you and yet lack one of your own. A cruel twist of fate.

                                  By the time she was seventeen, Persephone had stopped wondering about the absence in her chest. She learned not to think about it, not to dwell on it, and instead focused on the quiet power she had discovered—this strange ability to see the hearts of others, to understand them in a way that others couldn't. It was as if the universe had given her a gift wrapped in mystery, a way to peer beneath the surface and see what people couldn't—or wouldn't. She knew when someone was lying. She knew when someone was afraid. She could feel the tremor of love, the ache of longing, the hollowness of guilt. She became the keeper of truths, although no one ever knew that she was keeping them.

Persephone was an outsider, in more ways than one. She learned this when she first caught the attention of Tom Riddle. The boy everyone knew, but no one really saw. He wasn't like the others. And yet, there was something about him—a danger beneath the polished exterior, a glimmer of madness that caught her off guard. She knew the kind of person he was before he ever opened his mouth—his heart was sharp and blackened, a hollow thing filled with ambition and something colder, something darker.

But he was like her.

She saw it in the way he carried himself, the way his smile was more of a blade than a kindness. He, too, had an absence where something vital should be. He, too, knew what it was like to look at others and see not just who they were, but what they could be.

"You're not like the others," he said one evening, his voice smooth and quiet, the kind of voice that could tempt a saint.

Then he stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her like a hawk watching its prey. "Do you ever feel it, Persephone? The emptiness?"

"I don't feel anything."

It wasn't entirely true. She felt the absence, the hollow space where a heart should be, but it wasn't the kind of feeling she thought he meant. It wasn't grief or sorrow or rage—it was nothingness, a void that had always been there.

In the months that followed, Tom became both a curiosity and a constant presence in her life. He spoke of ambition and destiny, of remaking the world into something better—something under his control. Persephone listened, not because she believed in his vision, but because he understood the emptiness inside her in a way no one else ever had.

She never trusted him. Trust required a heart, and she didn't have one. But she couldn't deny the pull she felt toward him, like the pull of gravity or the inevitability of the tide. He made her feel seen, even if it was only through the lens of his own ambitions.

Tom never spoke of love, and neither did she. Whatever bound them together wasn't love—it was sharper, crueler, more calculated. It was two predators circling each other, testing the limits of their power.

But deep down, Persephone knew one truth about Tom Riddle: maybe he was not like her. He may have shared her emptiness, her hunger, but he still had a heart. And in time, she would either destroy it—or he would find a way to take what she never had.

𝓒AST ━━          ❛ rather be the
hunter than the prey    ❜ ˚ ༘  . 🦴

╭ ━━━━ 𓇢𓆸 ━━━━ ╮

╰ ━━━━ 𓇢𓆸 ━━━━ ╯

✶⋆.˚ 𝕿OM 𝕸ARVOLO 𝕽IDDLE ˙⋆✶
𝒊. ✧ william crudup

❛ i'm loving all his strategic ways i said
do you think you'll kill for me one day ? ❜

✶⋆.˚ 𝕻ERSEPHONE 𝕮HAMBERS ˙⋆✶
𝒊. ✧          natalie portman

❛ i've got thick skin and an elastic heart
but your blade it might be too sharp          ❜

──── ୨୧ ────
michael gambon albus dumbledore
jim broadbent horace slunghorn
vincent cassell pascal chambers
uma thurman celestia chambers

❪ constantly updated ❫
──── ୨୧ ────

▌ WARNINGS . . .
this book may contains strong language, injury and mention of death, sad scenes, use of alcol, mentions of sex and overall mature scene. these themes are used for storytelling purposes and are not meant to minimize or trivialize the complexity or seriousness in real life.

▌ DISCLAIMER . . .
All rights to the characters belong to me and of course to j.k rowling !!!
Graphics are mine as well.
This is a work of fiction. the characters in this story are used for narrative purposes only and do not reflect the real-life opinions, experiences, or actions of the actors. any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons is purely coincidental. I KNOW THE FACECLAIM OF TOM IS DIFFERENT BUT YOU HAVE TO TRUST THE PROCESS !!
▌ PUBLISHED . . .
27-12-2024

i apologize for any grammatical mistakes as
english is not my first language 🤍

dedicated to trulyjohnlock teariot -niallwife joh4tsu AALUCARRD dracuIauras stvrlvcs carefleur twsters sex0nthebeach cotthrills deathproofed honeyrots cubiclez dairology 1-800-JJMAYBANK wandasdarkhold-
adoratics

thank you for the support !!!! ♡

GUYS I'M SO EXCITED !!  IT'S 2 A.M. BUT I NEEDED
TO PUBLISH IT RN !!! I KNOW THIS STORY IS A BIT MORE FANTASY THAN EXPECTED BUTTTT I HOPE YOU'LL STILL LIKE IT !!!! 💗💗💗
let me know what you think with a comment and leaving a star ⭐️ !!!! thank you for the attention 🩷

©innermoons