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Tom had many hobbies.
Wasn’t particularly passionate about anything—unless you would call narcissism a passion—but he dabbled, picked up interests here and there, enough to be able to effectively bullshit at just about anything and make himself out to be a master. His latest venture was more of a stepping-stone, something to kill time while he waited. His employees were more invested in the work than he was at this point, which suited him just fine. Make them think they’re in control, then manipulate their hearts’ desires, that was his method. Occasionally do some of the dirty work yourself to put up appearances, get some fun out of it.
Hence why he stood outside some church in the center of town. It was no Westminster but it was large enough to warrant a small gift shop for the local tourists who had a weekend free. Thankfully, the square was empty on a Wednesday afternoon, save for the pigeons pecking at bread crumbs left from the seniors’ meeting earlier in the morning. Tom didn’t enjoy being this close to the center of anything, knew his reputation preceded him and had to be careful about raising the wrong sort of attention. Blackmailing a priest is one thing; blackmailing a priest on the cover of the Daily Mail is another.
Strolling through the gift shop entrance, he ignored the random university student behind the till and breezed past the ticket booth with a smile and a “I’m here to speak with the Father about the youth summer program.”
The priest’s office was tucked behind the altar, beside the World War 2 memorial for the three people that had seen combat in this town. He didn’t bother knocking, pulled the oak door open, and pushed his sunglasses up from his eyes.
It seemed even priests needed assistants. The girl didn’t seem much younger than him, her Oxford blouse and pearl pink headband knocking a few years off. She seemed the type to be the good Catholic school girl, knees raw from prayer, tongue familiar with the Latin translation of Genesis, even sitting smack dab in Protestant country. He thought it sweet, appreciated devotion in whatever form it came—even this naïve, innocent manifestation.
Susan Pevensie, read her name plate.
“I’m here to see Father Dumbledore, is he in?” He flashed a grin, even though she had yet to look up at him from her computer.
“Name?” She said, eyes still trained intently on whatever she had open on her Mac.
Ah, so she was that type. Well, he could work with that too.
“Oh, he won’t be expecting me. Think of it as…” he cocked his head in mock thought, pretending to deliberate over his choice of words, as if he didn’t have expert control over his vocabulary. “A surprise.”
Her eyes met his. If he had a heart, it would have melted, but all he felt was red-hot want.
They were startlingly blue, but there was nothing pure about her, he sensed, as she cooly observed him. He would need more than an ice-pick to crack that exterior but it’s not like he was in a rush. And anyway, it had been a while since he had anything close to resembling a challenge.
“I’m afraid Father Dumbledore doesn’t do surprises. But if you give me your phone number and an address we can find you at, we will make sure to get back to you soon.” Susan flashed a smile of her own, clearly practiced and perfected over years. Decades even.
Tom rested his hands on the back of the chair in front of her desk. “I am in a bit of a rush and this is important.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it is. For you.” Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her hair, she returned to her computer.
He stood in silence as her perfectly manicured fingers tapped away at the keyboard. She paid no attention to him, almost as if he wasn’t still standing there.
“Is that all?” He said, fingers tightening over the metal rail of the chair. He wasn’t used to this. People either wanted him or feared him—but never this. Never downright ignored him.
Susan slightly—so imperceptibly that it was barely there—rolled her eyes. “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a reason for why it was so important for Father to meet with you.”
“Did I need one? There’s nobody here.”
She glanced up, then back at him.
His jaw clenched. “He’s in a meeting with God?”
She shrugged. “What else would you call prayer?”
At this, Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re trying to play, but the religious school girl act is overdone.”
“Someone’s getting antsy,” she laughed, exposing her bare neck, the shadows of her collarbone stark against her bone-white skin.
“Besides, you're not fooling anybody with your, whole, whatever this is.” With that, she motioned with her hand over his body.
Tom smirked. “Whatever what?”
“The whole devil-in-disguise act. What was it? Oh, terribly overdone.” Her voice dropped a decibel, to sinful depths, the slight bite of her lip not helping.
He cocked his head. “Who says I’m not the actual devil?”
And then, then, Susan Pevensie with the virgin Mary eyes and the Jessica Rabbit mouth—fuck, what was he? Fourteen?—curled her lips into a slow, delicious smile, one that would definitely be illegal in thirteen countries and encouraged in the circles he ran in.
“Oh, please. I’ve met the actual devil. You have nothing on her.”