Panned

Author's Notes: So, I got a beta! The lovely, insanely talented (seriously, she is also an awesome artist), brilliant, witty, and superduper badass wingedmercury has beta'd this chapter. Check out her stories if you read Naruto; she is a goddess of the crack!fic and also has some serious fics that are unusual and well-written. Everyone tell wingedmercury thanks for making this chapter a billion times better than it originally was!

Also, thanks to everyone for all the lovely reviews: le-femme-cavalier, Que9, cocoartist, Lady Riddle-Black, BananaDrama, Shubhs, unknownkyitty, Molly Dooker, m0nt, wingedmercury, Anon, AmazingMe123, SexySpectrum, A. Deca, MeriLynelle, SamarKanda, Cellar, HerGoldenWings, Kissable-Luxury, Annevader, Zombie Reine, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, and LittleHellCat.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.


Lesson Three: Flames


The rest of the day, Hermione was simply out of sorts. She couldn't wrap her mind around it, which was especially frustrating because there was rarely a problem that she could not solve. Even at her volunteer position at an agency that made calls for donations — a position she excelled at, due to her determination — she could not seem to focus. She stared out the window and listlessly made calls, always hanging up before she had to hear the person on the other end explain why they couldn't sponsor a Burmese orphan.

An uncharacteristic cynicism was washing over her. The weird feeling she'd gotten when talking to Tom Riddle — the feeling that she wasn't as noble as she viewed herself to be — would not leave her alone.

There was a notion she was beginning to have: that none of her volunteer work made a difference.

And not only that, but she couldn't just keep relying on her parents like this. Instead of feeling proud of herself, she was overcome with self-disgust. She had always been so brilliant — was this really the best use of her brilliance?

So when she was done her shift, Hermione found her feet leading her to Hogsmeade's High Street. It was evening, so many of the shops were closing, but she patrolled the street and went into every shop that had a 'Help Wanted' sign, and almost as though on auto-pilot, she began picking up applications.

A zen-like feeling descended on her as she walked, erasing the cynicism she'd been plagued with all day. Picturing actually being able to tell her parents that she no longer needed their money was a prospect that nearly made her salivate. Hermione had always longed for independence, and suddenly her world seemed to open up as she imagined a regular (if small) paycheck.

But even as she was feeling more confident about everything else, she still didn't know what to tell Viktor.

Was it wrong to not respond to his proposal? Picturing how he might be feeling made her cringe with guilt; so when she got home, she sat at her little section of counter in her kitchenette and began filling out the applications to avoid thinking of it. She had gotten over fifty of them, and for several hours, there was no noise except Crookshank's claws clicking on the linoleum as he paced listlessly, and the scratching of her ballpoint pen against the copy paper.

She finished around midnight, and sat back staring at her work with a sense of accomplishment that she hadn't realized she'd been missing. In school, she had loved the sense of fulfillment and accomplishment that went with finishing a complicated assignment or perfecting a study guide. It had boosted her self-esteemwhen everything else was competing to bring it down. Now, she didn't feel so bad about Voldemort's critique, or that awful picture of her in the Prophet. Her horizon seemed to broaden as she looked at the stack of applications, covered with her precise, tiny, neat handwriting.

She was too keyed-up to sleep, so Hermione got out her laptop, made a pot of tea, and began checking her email. Out of habit more than conscious effort, she found herself checking Voldemort's blog.

On January 14th, 2011, Voldemort wrote:

Before another one of you morons sends me another nonsensical email: yes. I have read the Daily Prophet. Yes, I was amused by the photographs. And, yes, I do have some thoughts on it.

Below the text was a series of photos of other sports stars, posing at various events with their wives and girlfriends. All looked vapid and slutty, their skin nearly glowing orange from self-tanner. Even though she was strictly against laughing at other women, Hermione could not quite stifle a snigger.

Sing with me: if I only had a brain! Really, I'm just relieved she isn't orange.

"Oh my goodness," Hermione muttered, massaging her temples. Ever since he had trashed S.P.E.W., she had been very reluctant to laugh at any of his comments, no matter how hilarious they were. Still, her heart had been warmed by his defense of her, and she found herself looking up his email on his blog.

Voldemort/Tom Riddle/Whatever you want to be called:

Thanks for the post. I appreciate it.

Her fingers hovered tentatively over the keyboard before she finished her email:

-Miss Troll


"Tom, m'boy, you still don't look a day over twenty-five!" boomed the oily Horace Slughorn as he clapped a fat, clammy, be-ringed pudgy hand on Tom's back. Tom resisted the urge to pick up one of the nearest ice sculptures and bash the greasy man's head in, and instead pasted on an impression of someone who actually liked talking to Slughorn.

"Perhaps you ought to get your eyes checked, Horace. My birthday was just a few weeks ago," he replied pleasantly, adding a wink in the direction of Slughorn's female companion, who was, as they always were, much too young for the man. And as always, her head looked full of hot air and he could have gone tubing down her cleavage. She blushed telephone-booth red at his attention, but luckily Slughorn was oblivious to his date's desire for Tom.

"I'm hardly a gentleman at all; I've just realized I haven't introduced this gorgeous young lady here," he chortled so heartily that port sloshed over the rim of his cut-crystal glass. "Tom, this is Pansy Parkinson. One of Draco Malfoy's very best friends. She is finishing up her doctorate in Art History; been studying in Paris." Pansy looked expectantly to Tom, apparently waiting for the perfunctory praise of her diligence and academic nature.

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," he said, raising his untouched glass of champagne to her slightly. Pansy flushed with pleasure. At that moment, Draco sidled up to them, his blonde hair slicked back and his steely eyes accentuated by his pale grey suit.

"Draco! It's been too long," Pansy shrieked, throwing her arms sycophantically around Draco.

"Hey, Pansy," greeted Draco a bit absently. Pansy let out a shriek of delighted laughter. Donkey in a dress? Or squealing sow? Can't decide, Tom mused.

"A little reunion we have here! This is so exciting," beamed Slughorn. Tom cast his eyes around the ballroom in search of someone more useful to speak with, but something caught his attention. "So many interesting guests here...did you see, there's Igor Karkaroff — owner of the Bulgarian football team," Slughorn continued eagerly, drawing Draco and Pansy's attention across the room to a weak-jawed man in furs.

"Speaking of reunions and football...have you heard about Krum's rumored fiancee?" Draco sneered, mostly to Pansy. She let out another shriek and Tom winced. Why didn't people come with silencing buttons? He would've liked Pansy so much better if she were on mute...

"I know! That runt Hermione Granger. God, she looked like a beaver...in more ways than one."

Draco and Pansy had a good little chuckle at Pansy's poorly wrangled double-entendre. Snore. Though it was interesting that Hermione Granger seemed to be acquainted with these two. He masked a smirk that was brought on by imagining her in school with them. She probably didn't put up with their idiocy. If she had the guts to stand up to him, it was unlikely that too many people scared her.

Slughorn had acquired an odd, dreamy shine to his eyes — a look that usually preceded intrigue and gossip. The portly man leaned in closer.

"Yes, that is a most intriguing proposal...most of us were under the impression that Krum wasn't dating at all..." he remarked loftily, smirking into his glass of port.

Slughorn clearly knew something. He was also clearly taunting Tom, just begging for him to ask. Tom stayed on, patiently waiting for the man to divulge. He had to admit that Hermione Granger was a point of intrigue — or at the very least, amusement — for him. While he'd never fall prey to Slughorn's idiotic gossiping tactics unless absolutely necessary, he was perfectly willing to sacrifice a few moments of his own precious time if it meant learning something amusing or embarrassing about the frizzy-haired playwright. "I wonder...is it any coincidence that we found out about this Hermione Granger directly after Krum's manager and parents encouraged him to marry for his image?"

Tom snorted.

"His image? He's a footballer. He's paid to kick his balls, not squeeze them."

Pansy, again, laughed unreasonably hard for an unreasonable amount of time at Tom's pun. Tom tried to hide his disgust, but some things just cannot be faked.

"It's amusing that you've used that wording, Tom. He's always been plagued by rumors as being gay, actually," Slughorn explained, his piggy little eyes glittering. Tom nearly gaped at Slughorn, but caught himself at the last moment. As a journalist, blogger, and critic, he was in deep trouble if he was the last to know about something this juicy. He had to act unsurprised.

"Because he hadn't married yet; there's no basis for those rumors..." Tom timed his pause and arranged his features into an expression of suspicion, "...Unless you know something, Horace? I don't doubt you'd know more about it than I." His careful flattery was always a win with Slughorn; the man practically glowed from the subtle praise.

"Let's just say a large sum of money was paid to a large group of people after a sighting at a gay bar in Germany," Slughorn said with an exaggerated air of mystery. Draco and Pansy were clearly not following the conversation; Pansy was gazing at Tom in undisguised lust and Draco was amusing himself by studying the rather revealing shape of Pansy's gown.

Tom took a swig of his champagne to give himself a moment to think. So Viktor was trying to avoid being pegged (in more ways than one, apparently) by marrying Hermione? Tom frowned, recalling his rendezvous with the bushy-haired fiancee from the evening before. No, there was no way in hell that she was aware of this. He recalled her big brown eyes, so wide and innocent, as she had postulated that she might be in love with Viktor.

The conversation dissolved into a discussion of who was wearing the latest designer, and Tom mentally checked out. His FlooPhone buzzed in his pocket and he toyed with the idea of telling Hermione what he had learned tonight. She had emailed him, after all — he'd seen the email before he'd left for this venture but he'd not known what to reply.

He declined a profiterole from a passing waiter, but did accept a vodka tonic as he drew out his phone with his other hand, bypassing the large number of text messages to get to his email. Why bother? No reason to tell her. She was obviously not actually in love with Viktor, and if she couldn't figure out that the proposal was a farce, she deserved what she got.

With that decision made, Tom looked about the room for someone more interesting to occupy his time, and was relieved when he spotted Severus Snape, a fellow hater of humanity, scowling at Lucius Malfoy. There was the slightest hint of a smirk to Severus' lips; Tom would have happily bet his Avada Kedavra that Severus was smirking at Lucius' absurdly flamboyant attire. He made to stride across the room and perhaps make fun of Malfoy, but halfway there, a tall be-suited form barred his way.

"Riddle! How lovely to see you," greeted an ancient-looking man. He had twinkling, mischievous eyes and grey hair slicked back with a matching grey beard. In spite of appearing so old, he possessed a youthful and lively energy about him that was disarming. The heavy scent of stylish, expensive cologne permeated the air as Gellert Grindelwald, CEO of Gladrags, stood in Tom's way. His gleaming, slim-cut silvery suit was both ridiculous and yet refined, and as he reached out to shake Tom's hand, the light reflecting off the silvery threads nearly blinded Tom.

"Ah. Grindelwald. The tin man called; he wants his body back," he snarked, and moved to step around Grindelwald. But Grindelwald agilely matched his move and continued to stand in his way. Truth be told, Tom could feel his palms turn clammy. He had not known Grindelwald would show up to something as unfashionable as a Malfoy charity ball.

"Polite as ever. You were always a sweet boy." Grindelwald's tone was indulgent but his eyes were flashing with a rather violent dislike. Suddenly, he looked concerned, and he placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Tell me, has it been hard for you — financially, and emotionally — to step down from a regular dayjob?" The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smug grin as his grip tightened on Tom's shoulder.

I need to end this here.

"You know my profession, Grindelwald. The more you say, the more fodder I get," Tom replied smoothly before batting Grindelwald's gnarled, bony hand away easily. "Enjoy the party," he cast over his shoulder as he swerved past the old man.

Hatred for each other was boiling in their veins.


Hours later, Hermione awoke to her phone chirping noisily and Crookshanks hissing his displeasure while taking refuge on top of her face. Hermione groaned and fumbled for her phone. Who on earth...?

"H-hey. Hermione?"

Ron's voice cracked slightly. Hermione bolted upright, sending a very unhappy Crookshanks flying, as she clutched the phone.

"Ron," she stammered, rubbing at her eyes. She squinted at the clock across the room. "It's three in the morning. Are you alright?"

There was silence for a moment and she checked her phone to see if they'd been disconnected. "Ron?" she tried again.

"S-sorry." She heard him exhale. "I was just...Can we talk?"

"Now? What's going on? Are you hurt?" Even as she spoke, Hermione was rising from her bed and searching for her jeans, shivering slightly at how cold it was outside of her blankets.

"Yes. No! I mean... can I just come over? We could go for a walk — or something." There was a defensiveness to his voice that worried Hermione even further. "I'll meet you at your apartment. I don't want you walking alone at this hour."

Hermione wrinkled her nose at his protectiveness, but decided that this was really not the moment to lecture him on her ability to take care of herself. She sighed.

"Alright, Ron, we can meet up. Just let me get dressed."

He hung up with the promise that he'd be there in twenty minutes, and Hermione finished dressing in her warmest sweater and thickest socks and boots. She parted the blinds with two fingers; in the orange light of her apartment complex's courtyard, she could see the snowflakes falling.

Ron had to be wanting to talk about Viktor's proposal, right? She couldn't fathom any other reason he might contact her so suddenly instead of Harry...unless he already had contacted Harry and hadn't been able to get in touch with him?

Was it egotistical of her to assume this was about her, anyway? What if something was horribly wrong?

She was so uneasy that she brushed her teeth twice without realizing it at first. Hermione never took long to get ready, so she was set to go well before Ron was due to arrive. With nothing to do, she began pacing around her kitchen, her keen mind running through the possible reasons that Ron might be driven to call her at such an hour and insist on meeting.

Ron never rang her doorbell; he always called her phone. Hermione opened the door to find him standing there, snowflakes caught in his hair and melting on his maroon jumper that his mum had knitted him. As always, there was that sting of regret when she saw him and his big blue eyes.

"You forgot a coat," she chided, unconsciously reaching out and brushing the snow off his jumper. Ron leapt back as though galvanized."S-sorry," she muttered, her cheeks flushing. "Why don't you come inside?"

"Can we just walk somewhere?"

Hermione was, in all honesty, relieved at his suggestion, because there were far too many memories here in this apartment from her time with Ron. Her stomach churning, she slipped on her old coat and paused to grab a scarf for Ron. It was dark blue, and had actually been knitted by Mrs. Weasley. She'd kept it in her top drawer all this time, unable to quite let it go.

"Here...Just take this so when you freeze to death, I'll be guilt-free," she tried to joke, shoving the scarf at him. Ron rolled his eyes and muttered a comment about her being too much like his mum under his breath, and wrapped it around his neck as Hermione locked her door.

In tense silence, they walked down to the freezing cold outside. The snow was melting when it hit the streets, and slush was gathering on the pavement. Their breaths clouded wetly in the air as they paused on the sidewalk, looking around. Hermione was positively dying to begin firing questions at him, but she'd known Ron long enough to know that that was not the way to deal with him.

"We might as well walk this way,"Ron said, and Hermione hastened to walk beside him as they began walking down the street, their hands shoved in their pockets, their posture tight from the cold as well as the awkwardness of the situation.

And soon, even though she knew it was unwise, she could not stop herself from demanding answers.

"Well?" Hermione prompted after a few blocks. Hogsmeade was nearly silent in the night, though once in a while, a car or bus passed by on the road. As they approached the city's center, there was a bit more activity, especially in the all-night cafes, as the pubs had only recently closed. When they were closer to the High Street, they had to dodge raucous groups stumbling out of coffee chains, laughing too loudly and strictly at odds with the unease between Ron and Hermione.

She chanced a glance at Ron. "Why did you need to meet up?"

Ron kicked at the sidewalk as they walked with his trainer. Several times he opened his mouth, looking prepared to speak, but would close it at the last second.

"I wish you weren't thinking of marrying Vicky," he finally confessed. Years ago, he might've acted out in anger, but now, she knew he was as tired of the angst between them as she was.

She didn't know what to say to that. The weariness was translating to tears now and she blinked rapidly.

"Ron, you really haven't been in my life in the last couple of years — especially when I needed you," she replied carefully. She didn't want to upset him, but she didn't want to lie, either. Placating never worked with Ron, because he always actually believed it.

Ron stiffened visibly.

"Well, you haven't been in mine,"he countered. His words annoyed her — she hadn't been accusing him; that hadn't been her point. Hermione pressed her lips together as they came to one of the coffee chains. Through the fogged glass, its lurid orange walls and brown and yellow logo looked surreal in the nighttime.

"It's too could to stand around out here; let's go in and get some coffee,"she said, opening the door for him. In stony silence they waited by the cashier to order. As Ron ordered an egg sandwich, Hermione's gaze roved over the little cafe with its sullen fluorescent lighting.

The bell chimed as new customers entered; it was Tom Riddle and a hook-nosed man with greasy black hair that gleamed grotesquely in the artificial light. Both wore tuxedos, but while Tom looked ready for the opera, the other man only seemed more batlike in his black tux. As though magnetized, her eyes met Tom Riddle's, and a knowing smirk curved his lips.

"Miss Troll," he greeted as he and his friend sidled up to her. For a breathless moment, Hermione wondered if he had gotten her email of thanks yet. Ron turned on his heel in the middle of ordering.

"Excuse me, sir, what did you want on your sandwich?" demanded the cashier— a teenaged girl with over-plucked eyebrows — in a clipped, irritable tone.

"Who are you calling Troll?" he asked hotly, scowling at Tom. Here we go, Hermione thought with a mental sigh. The hook-nosed man snorted and he and Tom shared a look that radiated disdain for Ron.

"It's an inside joke," Hermione interrupted hastily as she saw Ron's ears turn pink.

"Sir, do you want the bacon or sausage?"

Ron was plainly ignoring the cashier as he scowled at Tom Riddle.

"Wait a minute. Isn't this that guy who trashed your play?"

"SIR."

"I want bacon," Ron snapped over his shoulder. Hermione groaned as Tom's friend quietly made a squealing noise, like a pig, and Tom began sniggering uncontrollably.

"That's not funny," she said coldly. "How old are you — eight?"

"Then why are you trying so hard to not laugh?" Tom arched his brows at her, and Hermione simply turned back to Ron and the cashier.

"I'll have a plain black coffee," she ordered in a much nastier tone than she had intended, and the cashier quite sullenly punched in her order. Great. Now she'll probably spit in it.

Ron shot Tom and the other man a dirty look before rather possessively leading Hermione to one of the corner tables. The way his arm automatically slung around her shoulders — as though she were a toy that the other men had been trying to play with — aggravated her. For a moment, she met Ron's blue eyes: this did not bode well for the rest of this discussion. Ron hastily drew his arm back and they sat down at one of the plastic tables, their knees bumping accidentally.

"Maybe we should try again," he postulated, fidgeting with a piece of a straw wrapper that had been left behind on the table. Hermione almost laughed at that idea, but luckily was cut off by the server bringing their orders out to them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom Riddle take a seat with his friend. Where had they come from, so late, that was black tie? It must have been a pretty fancy event. Snowflakes lingered on their shoulders, slowly melting in the stuffy heat of the cafe.

"Try again?" Hermione prompted, though she was afraid of the answer. Ron exhaled hotly; he was apparently struggling with whether to continue this at all or not.

"I mean, we could try at...us." He looked up again. "Or just... we could go on a few dates. Give it another go..."

"Where did this come from?"Hermione asked finally, blowing on her coffee to cool it. Ron must have been truly upset, because he was only picking at his egg sandwich. He exhaled again and rubbed at the back of his neck, in the process leaving a smear of ketchup on his cheek.

"I'm not the only one who thinks you shouldn't marry Vicky—"

Her patience wore thin at the name and her temper flared.

"Oh, for god's sake, Ron, either call him Viktor or Krum, but really? Vicky? After all these years?" she hissed. In her peripheral vision, she saw Tom studying her curiously.

Ron bristled at her words.

"You certainly never hesitated in making fun of Lavender," he snapped back. His ears were bright red now. Hermione scoffed.

"Ron, you and Lavender were using each other for sex. During our relationship." She paused, letting the words sink in. "I think that means I am awarded the ability to say whatever I want."

"We were on a break then—"

"That didn't mean you could just go and sleep around with any common slut!" Hermione exploded, forgetting herself. Ron's eyes were wide for a moment before his face flushed with anger.

"I wanted to have a real conversation about this, but if you still haven't forgiven me for that one stupid night..."His voice was very tightly controlled, as though he too were on the verge of exploding. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Ron, this happens every time we try to work through this. Maybe you should just accept that we can't make things work," she stated matter-of-factly. She was trying to be pragmatic in the face of his evident anger, but when she met his big blue eyes, her stomach roiled with upset at the obvious hurt there, ruining her resolve.

"Well, maybe if you would stop looking at me like that every time I see you, it'd be easier," he said, nearly squashing his sandwich. The smear of ketchup was still on his cheek and it was bothering her. Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak further; she simply reached up to her own cheek, wiping demonstratively at it. The gesture was one she had made countless times when they had been dating (because Ron was a complete slob when he ate), and Ron paled as he followed suit and wiped at his cheek, the ketchup coming off on his hand.

"I don't look at you any way in particular, Ron," she replied quietly after he had looked away. Ron bit into his sandwich instead of replying. "And I don't understand why you can't accept that we wouldn't work out."

"Sorry. Silly me. Thought you — I don't know — cared about me," he mumbled, though his words were acidic.

Do not get mad. Getting mad would be unproductive. Do not get mad.

Hermione took deep, cleansing breaths until the urge to shout had passed.

"I do care about you. Very much so. And I wish we could fix things. But we can't. And the truth is...I like Viktor, a lot."

Ron didn't look convinced. He stared at her, chewing and swallowing mechanically. Abruptly he rose and tossed the wrapper in which his sandwich had come in the wastebin.

"Congratulations, then," he said coldly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He stormed out the door, leaving Hermione to sigh and massage her temples in frustration. Why did every privateconversation with Ron end like this? He always got unnecessarily angry and would storm out.

The coffee was disgusting, so Hermione tossed it in the trash. Tom and his friend were also leaving, and there was an awkward moment where Hermione was unsure of how much to acknowledge of what they had just witnessed.

"I'm off, Tom," said the hook-nosed man shortly, his beetle black eyes flicking to Hermione briefly, making her face feel warm. "As amusing as I find late-night coffee rendezvous..."

He left, and now Hermione and Tom were standing together in the doorway.

"This is embarrassing," said Hermione, covering her face with her hands. Tom snorted.

"No, it was hilarious. I can't wait to see this in the tabloids tomorrow," he replied easily, swinging open the door and gesturing for her to go through first. His usual combination of sweetness and sourness inhis demeanor was, as always, jarring; Hermione scowled even as she walked through the doorway. Still, she remembered how he had defended her on his website, and his defense made her feel better about everything. She couldn't bring herself to get too mad at him.

"Did you get my email?" she hoped she sounded casual as they fell into step, walking down the street. Tom slipped his gleaming FlooPhone from the jacket of his tuxedo and waved it at her.

"Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, yes. If only they found a way to immediately teleport somewhere...then again, that would make it easier for people to bother me, so never mind," he mused, shoving his hands in his pockets. Hermione rolled her eyes but her stomach was still fluttering with nervousness.

"I mean, I don't need to be defended," she told him earnestly. They came to a crosswalk. Hermione had no idea of whether they were actually walking together or if they just happened to be walking the same way, she couldn't rest easy. "But it's been so hard. I had no idea that everyone would know about this."

"Blah blah blah. Cry me a fucking river," he replied disinterestedly, stopping in front of Gladrags to eye a suit in the window. "How many girls would literally murder to be in your place right now?"

"I'm not like them, though," Hermione snapped, resisting the urge to smack him upside the head. He looked back at her from his examination of the suit. "I don't want to be famous for marrying someone."

"Then don't marry Krum. Problem solved."

"But what if I'm in love with him?"

Tom's lips curled as though he found this suggestion hilarious but didn't deem it worth his time to even bother laughing at her. Hermione sighed. "Well, enough of that. I was thinking about the things you've said, about me just being a spoiled brat..." she drew in a breath, preparing herself to speak further, "...and I decided to get a job. Like a real one. So I've been applying to everywhere on High Street. But I still will keep my old volunteer jobs. This is just to make a bit of money, really."

"Is this where I give you a cookie and pat you on the head for being a good girl?" Tom pondered aloud, shooting her a smirk. Luckily, Hermione was becoming used to him, and the sting of his words was hurting less and less with every passing he simply didn't know how to be kind?

"No, but you could tell me how to potentially improve my play. I'm not giving up on S.P.E.W., and since your opinion holds a lot of clout, I'd like to hear your thoughts on what to change to make it better."

"Let's see...open your document on your computer," he began in an instructional tone. Hermione nodded eagerly.

"And then?"

"Select all of the text."

She was beginning to have a bad feeling of where he was going with this.

"And then hit 'backspace?'" she guessed shrewdly. Tom's eyes widened.

"You've got it! See, Miss Troll — I don't have to teach you anything. You already know the secrets to improving your own play! Looks like that expensive education is paying off after all."

"Are you ever nice?" she grumbled. They were nearing her neighborhood now. Was Tom Riddle actually walking her home? Wonders would never cease.

"I'm being extremely nice to you right now. I'm walking you home to make sure you don't get raped..." he paused and looked her over. "Though it occurs to me now that that's unlikely for you, Miss Troll."

"Ha ha," she said shortly. "Everyone knows that you're much more in danger of being sexually assaulted by someone you know and have some kind of relationship with than a random stranger. So really, you're a bigger threat than anyone else to me right now."

Tom threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, I can assure you that you are perfectly safe from me, Miss Troll, no matter how nasty I may seem."

"You don't seem that nasty right at the moment," Hermione admitted. They were approaching her complex now, and she felt a strange sense of impending loss. She didn't want to part with Tom; he was taking her mind off of her situation with Ron and it was a relief. "Why the tux, anyway?"

"I knew you were lusting after me," he accused triumphantly. "Like most clothing, I look really fantastic in tuxedos." Hermione slapped her forehead.

"Honestly, no. You look like a penguin in your tux," she snapped, even though this was a complete lie. In truth, he looked like a living work of art, but she wasn't about to admit that. Instead of being offended, however, Tom simply chuckled to himself.

"Charity ball thrown by the Malfoy family — no, that's not a joke, though it'd be quite a funny one if it were."

Hermione broke down in sniggers and was soon joined by Tom. Yes, the day the Malfoys were genuinely charitable would be the same day she would spot Satan strapping on his ice skates for the coldest day in Hell.

They came to the front door of her complex and stood in front of it, facing each other for a moment.

"Y-you don't actually think anyone would know about that argument I just had...do you? Do you really think it will appear in the tabloids?" she asked uncomfortably, unable to meet his eyes. Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

"I didn't see any paparazzi, but you never know. Your friend was pretty rude to the cashier, so she might be more inclined to sell you out." He sounded so casual that Hermione winced. "Either way, you're a fool if you don't start taking these matters more seriously...unless you don't care how you're perceived."

"I don't," she said haughtily. She met Tom's shadow colored eyes and he was smirking at her. As usual.

"That is a lie. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked about it."

Hermione groaned.

"Fine. I do care. It's annoying. I thought I would have been done with this nonsense but it's just like high school all over again."

"Didn't anyone tell you? High school never ends," he said softly, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

"I can't imagine you had a difficult high school experience. You were probably the most popular guy in school and had everyone fawning at your feet and eating out of the palm of your hand," she grumbled, not even bothering to keep up the false pretense that he wasn't attractive. Tom looked thoughtful for a moment, and she held her breath — perhaps he had experienced alienation...?

"That's about right," he finally said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, I don't think there were more than a handful of people who disliked me at all."

Hermione almost fell over.

"You are unbelievable," she said, shaking her head, as she grasped the handle of the front door. Tom laughed again, causing a little flutter to ripple through her tummy.

"Yes, I get that quite often," he jested. "Especially in bed."

"Don't look so pleased with yourself; that might have more to do with the genuine surprise of finding out you aren't half-demon or something after all."

Hermione paused and, staring at his smirk, she couldn't help but return the grin. For a moment, there was silence as they regarded each other.

"Thanks," she finally said, feeling shy again suddenly. "You really cheered me up." She let out a sigh. "I always tell Ron we won't work out, because we've tried, and—" she halted as Tom held up his hand, signaling for her to stop talking at once.

"Really, I don't care. No one cares, frankly. Obviously you must be giving him some inkling that he might have another chance, or else he wouldn't try again. Very...coquettish of you, I'd say. That's in a bad way, mind you."

Hermione glowered at him.

"Didn't you hear our conversation? I told him —"

"You still went to meet him in the middle of the night," he pointed out, arching his brows at her pointedly. "You still gave him attention when he came crying for it. If you were really trying, you would have simply refused to meet him at all, to prove you are completely disinterested."

Hermione squirmed uncomfortably. "This sort of behavior is always tiresome, especially from girls such as yourself. You're so pleased to have male attention that you can't quite let go of it, even as you hurt the other person in the process," he continued, his gaze heavy. It was like he was dissecting her, and it was not fun at all.

"You really love summing up my faults, don't you?" she asked bitterly, her cheeks practically aflame now. Tom's pale lips twisted into a half-smirk that made him look decidedly roguish.

"I'm a critic for a reason," he pointed out simply. "Besides, it's not as though this is a fatal flaw. You just need higher self esteem...then you won't depend on others for your own validation."

Hermione blinked. That was actually quite a good point.

"My self esteem has been in shambles lately..." she admitted slowly. Tom rolled his eyes broadly.

"Unless you start paying me, I'm not going to be your therapist and listen to your problems. Good night, Miss Troll." He turned, the snow swirling around him mesmerizingly, and for a moment looked back over his shoulder with that same half-smirk. It felt private, inviting, as though he wished to tell her a secret. "And good luck at your new job...That is, in the unlikely event that anyone actually hires you..."

"Thanks. Good luck lazing around in cafes in expensive sweaters and crushing others' self esteem," Hermione replied. He winked and saluted her, and then sauntered down the street. Hermione watched him go. At this moment, he looked like something out of a very posh movie with his black tuxedo a dark smudge against the snowy Hogsmeade landscape.