AN: Welcome back, my lovelies. *gushy kissy noises* OK, so I'm so uber glad you're all on-board with this, and your reviews were awesometastic. In response to the ending of the last chapter, there was a half-and-half mix of confusion and some really good speculations. Some readers asked, you know, what the hell was that?

Mystery, guys. Mystery.

But if you have any ideas about what is going on in Malfoy Manor or anything, please leave them in a review or send me a PM. I give hints…sometimes. ;)

In answer to the questions asking after Master Riddle's malicious intentions; he's out for all the Malfoys (and Lestranges), including Hermione. *cue evil laughter* Also, some of the diary concept is cleared up in this chapter, which I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading. :)

"Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil,
as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave,
or tortured the living animal to lifeless clay?
…I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation
but for this one pursuit."
– Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Lord Malfoy left for Paris the following morning.

When Lady Hermione did not answer the knocks on her door or Bridget's calls, her handmaid assumed she was asleep and returned an hour later. This time, she went inside her lady's chambers. The handmaid left white-faced and told all the other servants to stay away from the east side of the second floor, owling Professor Umbridge and cancelling the day's lessons.

Bridget brought Lady Hermione breakfast and finally got her out of bed with some coaxing, brushing her long chestnut-brown hair into a plait and selecting a fine white dress for her. Lady Hermione sent her away after and told her not to come back. She said she was tired.

Bridget left.

Voldemort walked the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, looking for a place to smoke before he and Draco headed down to the train station. The Malfoys were so revoltingly rich, he'd bet every last cent he had that if he asked for an ashtray made of emeralds and diamonds to stub his cig out in, he'd get one without a blink of the eye. Purebloods knew no value in money or expenses – in anything besides new reproduction laws or ways to make incest look less disgusting.

His mental monologue was cut short by voices.

Voldemort stopped just before rounding the bend of the hallway, never one to miss an opportunity for information. He recognized them now. The first voice was a woman's and annoyingly high-pitched – that Emma girl – and the other belonged to Lady Hermione's handmaid, a fact he only knew because the Mudblood always chaperoned during their lessons. He listened closely.

"…and I need to go through there to get Lady Malfoy's laundry," Emma was saying. "She wants a specific dress clean and if I don't get it to her spiffy and pressed the way she likes, she's gonna haves her a fit-"

"Alright, alright, go then," the other servant said in exasperation. "But tell the others to stay away. The poor dear is in one of her…ah...spells again."

There was a tense silence and Voldemort frowned, waiting for the other Mudblood to respond. What the bloody hell did they mean by a 'spell'? Surely, they did not refer to the magical kind.

"She'll come out of it, won't she?"

"O' course, o' course. M'lady always does."

"How long do you think-?"

"There's no telling. Last time, it lasted up to a week. She wouldn't eat one thing, but I got her to have some breakfast earlier so I s'ppose it won't be so bad as that-"

Footsteps sounded from the other side of the hall and the servants broke apart, scattering in opposite directions before they could be caught gossiping. One was headed his way and Voldemort straightened, making himself known just as Emma rounded the corner. She skittered to a halt and gasped at the sight of him.

"G-good morning, M-Master Riddle," she stammered weakly. "Um, may I get you anything?"

"What's wrong with Lady Hermione?" he asked.

The Mudblood's eyes grew saucer-sized.

"Oh please, Master Riddle, don't tell," she begged. "We weren't hurtin nobody, we weres just talking, innocent talking, I swears-"

"I don't care what you were doing," he said impatiently. "I asked you a question. What is wrong with Lady Hermione?"

"She's ill. That's all I know," Emma said, moving her laundry basket from hip to hip and looking anxious. He raised a brow. "No, reallys, sir! Bridget knows about Lady Hermione, not me. M'lady is Lady Malfoy and it's her I tend to. Anything I hears about her daughter is just t-talk is all. Yous got to ask Bridget if you want to know anymore, cause I dunno about it, I don', I don'—"

"I get it."

Emma shut up, peering at him warily, and he smiled at her. At this, she looked even warier.

"I'm simply concerned for her, because you see, we have lessons today and I would be very sorry for her to miss them," he explained softly. "You understand that, don't you?"

She nodded slightly.

"Exactly. So, I only wanted to know, is she well enough to attend?"

"Well… I knows Bridget cancelled lessons with that other tutor she has, Missus Umbridge," Emma mumbled.

"I see. Lady Hermione must be feeling very out of sorts then, hm?"

"I s'ppose, Master Riddle."

"And this has happened before?"

Emma checked over her shoulder briefly, then behind his. Once satisfied they were the only ones there, she admitted, "Yes, quite a few times, actually. Since Lady Hermione was a little tyke." She looked at him sharply. "But we ain'ts allowed to talk about such things, Master Riddle. Lord Malfoy don' want no gossip getting around…"

"Of course. I simply wanted to be sure Lady Hermione was alright." He added, "Thank you, by the way."

"Er... yes sir." It sounded like a question. Emma flushed, gripping her laundry basket tighter and bidding him a good morning again before she hurried away.

He lit up.

Spells. Voldemort watched the countryside blur by through the fogged windows of the Hogwarts Express, ignoring the Slytherins in the compartment around him and knowing very well that the spells the Malfoy's servants had whispered about in the empty halls of their master's manor were not those taught at his school. If anything, it sounded to him like there were more secrets at Malfoy Manor than he'd bargained for.

It seemed Lady Hermione might be one of them.

This, of course, meant a change of plans were in order.

The bells of the clocks tolled through the manor at thirty minute intervals. Hermione lay back on her bed, studying the coffered ceilings. Counting each and every chiseled square. Humming to herself.

Psyche was ignoring Satan, who presently watched Miss Pross and Madame Defarge have another spat with blatant delight. Still, Hermione had the feeling Psyche was starting to fancy the demon, the angel fallen out of God's good graces. Psyche had always been weak when it came to following rules, to staying away from the forbidden, and Satan was well-versed in the arts of seduction.

Like I said, Satan whispered. She's just another Eve. And he laughed and laughed and Hermione smiled a little, chuckling too. The sound echoed hollowly throughout the room. Rattled like bones beaten against a xylophone.

"What do you think Master Riddle is doing?" she said. "It's well over four o'clock, so he must have come home with Draco already."

Master Riddle. Psyche sighed longingly. He is so very mysterious.

She thought of the diary and nodded. "He is, isn't he?"

Satan rolled his eyes. Women, it's no wonder you're all descendants of-

Prometheus made me, actually, Psyche pointed out, and Miss Pross looked appalled and called her unchristian, to which Madame Defarge immediately disagreed although she didn't speak a word of English.

The women dissolved into another row.

Back to the original point of conversation, said Satan pointedly. I believe you should find out how Master Riddle is doing yourself.

But she isn't allowed out of her room when Lord Malfoy isn't home, especially now that he is out of the country. Oh, she could get into so much trouble. Perhaps we should wait until the music lessons, come tomorrow? said Psyche in her usual compromising way.

Ladybird, in trouble? Miss Pross puffed out her bosom. Over my dead body.

What did she say? Madame Defarge demanded. Hermione translated. Pft. That can be easily arranged, mon amie. Easily arranged…

Narcissa is never home when Lord Malfoy leaves for Dumbledore. She's probably with Lucia Black, at one of those saloons in Hogsmeade. Satan smiled mischievously. She'll never know.

"Nor would she care," Hermione said and closed her eyes, humming louder until she couldn't hear any of them anymore. Until she couldn't hear the sound of her fingernails scraping her skin, itchy and chaffing. Until the clunking of her heartbeat overcame all else.

It was pitch-black outside when she finally got out of bed.

She summoned Frankenstein from the enchanted frame hanging over her bed, flipping it open to the page she last read and pulling irritably at the collar of the velvet dress she'd never changed out of. She moved an ottoman to the window and sat down, reading her story by aid of moonlight. The breeze made her shiver. Victor Frankenstein was snivelling uselessly over the monster he'd created, yet again.

Some minutes later, she glanced up – and Mary Shelley's bestseller promptly flew out her hands.

Because on the other side of the manor and across the courtyard in the window directly opposite hers was one of the guestrooms. In particular, it was Master Riddle's guestroom. And he was inside it.

Dressing for bed.

Hot blood crept up her neck and she knew that she should draw the curtains immediately, to forget any of this ever happened, to not just sit there and stare like a mindless duck the way she did this instant.

Why did he have to change in front of the blasted window?

Why couldn't she pull away her eyes, or remember any of the etiquette lessons Umbridge forced her through? Why, why, why?

Master Riddle undid the top button of his shirt and the rest followed steadily. Hermione receded to the very edge of the window, half-hiding behind the curtain and glancing around frantically to see if anyone was out there to catch her spying. She was being horrible, she knew.

She couldn't stop looking though.

Especially when she saw his chest, lean and taut without one single blemish under the open button-down His broad shoulders curved down into muscled arms, flexing as he ran a hand through his hair and cast an absent look about him. And saw her.

Oh, damn it all.

She was going to die of humiliation – if Psyche didn't kill her for ruining the moment first, that is.

Hermione lurched out of sight a second too late, nearly falling off the ottoman in her haste to escape, and she saw Master Riddle raise a brow and wander forward to the frosted glass. His dark eyes searched her window and he smirked when he saw her, huddled in the corner and blushing furiously.

He gave her a mockingly deep bow at the waist, as if to say thank you sincerely for coming to the show.

The nerve of him! Miss Pross blustered, puffing out her bosom and going red in the face. Hermione cheeks were so hot they prickled.

Gathering herself, she stood up and came to the center of the pane, grasping the edges of the drapes with all the dignity she could muster. She was about to pull them shut when Master Riddle cocked his head, catching her eye and gesturing for her to stop. She did, although she didn't know why.

Master Riddle reached for the cuffs of his shirt with a mischievous glint in his gaze. Her mouth fell open as he slowly – very slowly – shrugged off the rest of the shirt. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself for a split-second, her eyes darting from his sculpted chest back to his chiseled features quickly. A grin snuck across his mouth. Smug. Handsome.

She looked away, flushing, and pulled the curtains shut.

The spell was over.

Lady Hermione had her meals, lessons with Umbridge, and she smiled and laughed and was gentle. She would have her music lessons tonight and be ready for bed on time. Bridget was highly relieved. Yes, all was quite well for her lady.

What are you doing? Psyche asked curiously, watching as Hermione rifled through the cream jars and fragrance bottles, powders, hairpins and brushes littering the surface of her vanity. Meanwhile, Miss Pross glared at the Greek beauty from behind her copy of the Bible, propping the sacred text up as if it were a shield. As for Madame Defarge and Satan – the two had been strangely quiet today.

"Ah, there!" She snatched up a quill and some parchment triumphantly. "I'm going to write another list."

Oh. That's it?

Hermione rolled her eyes and wrote down the books she wanted Bridget to purchase when she sent her to London next. She needed the complete set of the Divine Comedy and some other sequels, for instance, and right now she very much needed a new book to read. Her fingers positively itched for it.

Perhaps she could chance a visit to the family library?

Draco and Master Riddle were already back from school, true, and Lord Malfoy did not allow her out of her room when there were guests unless she had lessons or a special obligation of some sort. That was plenty reason not to go.

But Narcissa was at the saloon again.

And she really did want a book.

The scent of pages and ink and ink and pages soothed the senses as soon as Hermione walked through the library's open doors. The servants must have been polishing the floors today, she thought, since they always left the doors ajar to air out the smell. She went down to the nonfiction section.

As she idled from aisle to aisle, it occurred to her that the toxic odor of wood polish was absent and that there were no servants to be seen, for that matter. She slid a rejected book back in place on the shelf. Simultaneously, a thunk sounded from the other side of the aisle.

She froze.

Not daring to make a sound, Hermione slowly put down her large pile of texts and backed away from the source of noise. She lifted her skirts and bent a little, looking through the empty space between tomes and alphabetically ordered scrolls to see a shape on the opposite side. Her breath caught when long white fingers roved over the book spine she'd just replaced, pulling it out and pausing.

She skittered back, praying to Lord Merlin he wouldn't see her.

Master Riddle put the book down.

Her whole bosom heaved with the inhale of air she took – how was it that he kept appearing everywhere she looked? – and she made for a quick escape, but the sound of her heel hitting the floor seemed to shatter through the vast room like slammed cymbals. Blast!

Master Riddle's head whipped up, dark eyes catching her so fast they trapped her as a powerful python did a bird. A hot blush immediately spread from the top of her forehead all the way down to her toes and she faltered, staring back at him as if someone had Stupefied her. Then again, every one of her limbs seemed to be frozen solid. Perhaps someone had?

"Tom, where are you?"

The call came from her left and she looked, Master Riddle's eyes moving with hers, to see her brother Draco tracking mud across the pristine library. He had the latest Firebolt slung over his shoulder and wore thick winter boots under school robes - boots that presently trailed wet slush and dirt over every inch of the recently waxed floors. He looked a fright with his flushed cheeks and wild bleached hair, twisted free from the smoothing submission of brilliantine and going in all directions. He'd been practicing.

"Tom," her brother hissed. "Where are-?" And that was when the icy blue eyes stopped scoping the aisles for his schoolmate, landing on her instead. She straightened and darted a glance at the gap of books where Master Riddle stood – but he was gone.

"Why hello, brat," Draco drawled.

"Good evening, Draco." Her fingers twisted nervously as he came toward her, weaving a hand through his hair as if to try and tame it – and failing to, at that. He glanced at the towering shelves around them disinterestedly. "How do you do?" she said politely.

"Fine. Seen Tom anywhere?"

Tom? Who was Tom?

He means Master Riddle, whispered Psyche helpfully.

"Hello? Over here, idiot." Draco snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and she started, blinking at him. He smirked. "You're acting odd, aren't you? Or at least, more so than usual."

She didn't respond and he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes when she immediately shrunk a little. What the bloody hell was she so nervous for? Draco thought, aggravated, and asked again whether she'd seen Tom.

"I saw Master Riddle just a moment ago in passing," she said. "He was here."

His gaze darkened.

"Is that all, Draco?" she said timidly, as if the quieter she was, the less likely her brother's impending temper was to strike.

As if things could be so simple.

"I heard you were ill yesterday." He stared at her hands now, clutching each other tightly. "What happened? Did you get a splinter? See a mouse?"

She paled. A vicious grin spread across his face. "Oh, I see. It was that…twitching…wasn't it?"

Lie, Satan hissed. Lie now.

"Don't be silly. Of course not, I-I-I was in bed," she stammered. "Sick with fever."

"Oh really?"

She nodded.

"Hm. Alright then." He began to go and her shoulders slumped, relief spinning through in a dizzying spell, but just then Draco spun back around and grabbed her before she had the chance to get away, jerking off her gloves in one lightning-fast movement and throwing them to the ground.

And he roared.

Oh, they were absolutely hideous. Pale thin fingers, twitching in the open air like dragonflies whose wings had been plucked off, were covered in criss-crossing scars and fresh scaly welts that glared angry red in the evening light. Hermione shrieked, trying to jerk away.

"Good Lord, they're revolting," Draco said, positively beside himself with laughter. "What in Merlin's name did you do this time? Put a hot iron to your skin-?"

"Draco."

Their heads snapped up at the interjection, and Hermione's stomach sank through her feet to see their visitor. Lo and behold, Master Riddle stood not too far away, situated at the end of the aisle with a book tucked under his arm and raised brow in place. Horror clamped down on Hermione fast. Lord Merlin. How long had he stood there watching them? Did he see her hands? The scars? She stepped back and Draco let her, just as equally stunned as she.

"Tom," he said, recovering. "I was just looking for you-"

"Don't you have a Potions exam to study for?" Master Riddle interrupted. The last of Draco's cocky smile slipped from his features. "I told your father I'd help you get better marks," he said, "but I can't very well do that if all you do is play Quidditch, now can I?"

"Of course." Draco was awkward. "Sorry, Tom. I'll just be…"

"Studying."

Her brother nodded and his sloshy footsteps tracked mud all the way back out of the library, squelching noisily. Hermione bent down and retrieved her gloves, putting them on very slowly and hoping Master Riddle would be gone by the time she stood again. He probably wanted to flee the premises immediately, to make his escape lest he be forced to associate with barbarians such as they for a second longer.

She wished the floor would just open up right under her.

But instead of leaving or reprimanding her, like she'd expected, Master Riddle did nothing of the sort. In fact, he did something entirely different instead.

"Lady Hermione," he said quietly. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes. I'm just fine, Master Riddle." She couldn't bear to look at him. The lie was tart on her tongue. "Thank you for asking."

He stared at her for another moment, but she continued to study the floor and would not meet his gaze. "I will see you at our lessons," he finally said. "Good evening, Lady Hermione."

"Good evening, Master Riddle," she replied.

Bridget came to Hermione's chambers at a quarter past six for primping. Hermione sat patiently at the vanity as her hair was brushed and twisted into a low bun, her skin checked for blemishes, and the black stockings she wore traded for a white pair. Madame Defarge had returned and bickered with Miss Pross, the both of them telling each other off in different languages without the faintest idea what either one was saying. Hermione, for the first time ever, dreaded seeing Master Riddle.

How was she to look him in the eye now? To hear that handsome baritone without going redder than an apple with mortification? The diary, still inside her dresser drawer, was blank and empty save for the few pages she'd practiced writing music notes on. Perhaps she would write in it later for a healthy venting.

Psyche sighed.

And all too soon, she was in the music room and Bridget was wishing them a good evening, curtsying on her way out and leaving the door wide open. The edge of her starch-white cap peeked at them from just outside the door frame.

Master Riddle was not in the mood for pleasantries.

"We will no longer continue your piano instruction," he said, once she'd sat down, and she nodded. She had been expecting this.

Master Riddle laid the music sheets flat on the piano top and tapped out a few notes. Then he glanced at her, a telling smile on his lips. Wait, he was smiling? Why was he smiling when he had just quit her? "You are a horrendous pianist, you know." Bewildering her further, he tacked a wink on at the end of his statement.

A wink.

The warm blush that exploded across her cheeks would put Umbridge's most vivid outfit to shame. It deepened when Master Riddle stood, crossing the room and perching on the chair beside her. More furniture had been added to the previously bare room since they'd begun using it. Her gaze flitted to the glass and she was unwillingly reminded of last night, when she saw him half-naked through her bedroom window.

Control yourself, Miss Pross snapped.

"As soon as the shipments Lord Malfoy ordered arrive, we'll find a new instrument for you," Master Riddle continued, getting comfortable. He looked very attractive and boyish in his school uniform, she could not help noticing. "But until then, continue studying your book and the notes you learned. You'll need them memorized well – very well – if you're to play anything."

"Yes, Master Riddle," she said, not without surprise. How could he not be leaving, after what he'd witnessed today? How could he even consider staying here with them a day longer?

Psyche was ecstatic, naturally.

"But what are we to do for the rest of the lesson?" Hermione said curiously.

"We can chat, if you'd like." The full-force of Master Riddle's dark eyes was riveted solely on her now. She forced herself not to squirm. "But if you find yourself terribly bored by me, do feel free to go, Lady Hermione. I'd hate to torment you." He smirked.

There it was again, that squeamish feeling! What on earth was that?

She looked away, unsure of this clash of new emotions and finding the sparkling black piano the safest thing to keep her eyes on. "I will bear that in mind, Master Riddle."

"Good." His fingers flitted over the ivory-colored wand poking out of his pocket, a gesture she was starting to recognize. She folded her hands in her lap. "May I ask you a question, Hermione?" he said, and she didn't miss the omission of her title. Or mind it, for that matter.

But he hadn't asked her to call him by his first name.

"Of course, Master Riddle," she responded. "What is it?"

"I hope you don't think me too forward, but I wondered what happened to your..." he trailed.

She stared. "I'm sorry?"

"In the library today, I happened to glimpse them." He looked apologetic. "I don't mean to embarrass you. I was only concerned."

He saw them. Madame Defarge picked up the knitting needles for her embroidery, a sign some unlucky aristocrat was about to join the waiting line for La Guillotine. Miss Pross swatted it out of her hands with a large scowl.

You evil woman, you don't need to condemn every person you see to death, Miss Pross barked, to which Madame Defarge replied most bitingly in French exactly what she would condemn her to.

They broke into a row.

"Hermione?" Master Riddle was worried now and he had somehow gotten closer, leaning on the armrest and threatening the space between them with his earnest eyes. She tensed. "I offended you, didn't I? I apologize. Please, forget I said anything-"

"No, you didn't." She smiled nervously. "I was only thinking."

"Oh?" he said, interested. "What about?"

"Um, your question," she said, surprised again by the inquiry after her thoughts. He was very attentive. "And whether or not I should answer it."

"Please do," Master Riddle said softly. His eyes were darker than ever now, intent on her. She blushed. "I'm very curious to know your answer."

"I'm sorry." She stared at her lap, missing the flash of frustration that glanced across Master Riddle's finely-carved features. "I…I can't tell you. It's very private."

Moreover, she didn't want to disgust him.

"I see," Master Riddle finally said and she worried she'd upset him somehow, glancing up to check his reaction. But his expression gave nothing away.

Inside though, Voldemort's thoughts were racing. Charisma wouldn't work on Lady Hermione, nor would heroics, apparently; that had been proven in the library earlier when he caught that idiot Draco terrorizing her. He needed a smarter plan, something that would work faster than a gentleman's charm to get her to spill every last secret she had. To tell him everything there was to know about the Malfoys.

To make her think he was on her side.

And she was so sheltered, so hard to reach through the set barrier and extra eyes constantly watching them. He had to find a way around that. No, he needed her to want to find a way around it and an incentive to do so – especially before Lord Malfoy returned. Her father was very protective of her.

An incentive…

"Do you like to read, Hermione?" he asked and she started, as if he'd awakened her from a very deep sleep or an entire other world. She did that often. "Is that why you were in the library earlier?"

"Um, yes." She nodded. "I enjoy reading very much."

"Why do you read? For academics? For pleasure?"

"For pleasure mainly, Master Riddle." She sounded shy.

Seeing the flush that spread across her neck, it suddenly occurred to Voldemort exactly what he must do, what trick needed to be played – and how hadn't he thought of it before? It was so blatantly obvious now. Lady Hermione, although different from most, was still a girl. And what girl didn't adore romance? What girl wouldn't leap through fiery hoops to save it? What better incentive could there be than a forbidden love?

And how gratifying it would be to captivate her, to see the pain in those brown eyes when he snapped her glass heart into pieces, to see Lord Malfoy's rage at his darling daughter's fleeting fancy. It would certainly make destroying the Malfoys more interesting.

Hermione eyes ensnared his again, and darted away just as quickly. She was a very nervous sort, he observed - and that would make seducing her all the more enjoyable.

When the toll of the clock marked the end of their lesson, it also marked the beginning of a terribly beautiful plan.

Music.

Hermione heard music.

Stay in bed, Ladybird, Miss Pross advised wisely. You know what Lord Malfoy said about going out at night, it is dangerous-

What did she say? Madame Defarge asked. Satan translated. Pft, danger and blood is my specialty. Praise La Guillotine! Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death, you emigrant!

I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying, muttered Miss Pross.

At least see what is out there. This from Psyche, who looked curious. Just look.

Satan rolled his glaring red eyes. I see the apple does not fall far from the tree... He grinned a second later. Get it?

"Be quiet, all of you." Hermione rose and they did, their bickering elapsing into abrupt silence. She listened intently to the whispers of piano that filtered under her door, to the staccato twinkles, to the heavy clangs and the ringing darkness that followed them. The song was enchanting as night.

Where did it come from?

She crept up to the door, about to go and find out, when another sound stopped her. This one came from behind her and it skittered, like the ribbed tappings of a typewriter. She turned around.

The diary.

It was on top of the vanity and exactly where she'd left it before going to Master Riddle's lesson, but now its pages flipped and tossed erratically, as if possessed. She approached it cautiously, heart pounding a song nearly as frantic as the one whirl-winding all around her.

The diary's pages stopped turning.

Examining it, she saw the diary had come to a halt somewhere in the middle of its contents, on a blank yellowed page whose tapered corns fettered anxiously under her gaze. What was it doing? she wondered, mystified. Better yet, what had Master Riddle given her?

She snatched up the diary, as if touching it might break the spell, but she had quite the opposite effect on it instead. Ink started to appear on the page, flowing across quickly and forming letters… No, not letters. Numbers? No, it wasn't that either. She peered at the enigma, frowning, and saw…

Music notes.

They appeared at different times. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and eventually Hermione realized their arrivals coincided with the music that first woke her. She saw several quarter notes, followed by a g whole note, and she heard these sounds the precise time she saw them slicked across the pages. When the staffs were filled, the diary whipped to a fresh page to begin the chaotic dance all over again.

Master Riddle had given her his music diary.

But was it a mistake? Or did he do it purposely? And why did he pretend not to know what she was talking about when she asked?

Where did the music come from?

She opened the door and peered into the dimly-lit hallway, the diary tight in her grip. The glowing gaslights lit the nightgown she wore like a lantern, transforming the ghost white ruffles into a chiaroscuro of light verse dark: shadowy in a lightless hall, iridescent as she passed a window in the next.

The manor had seemed to transform into a haunt overnight.

Hermione was silent and nervous as she followed the music up another floor. The marble tiles felt frigid. Her thoughts kaleidoscoped. What if someone caught her out here? What if the source of music was something dark, something that should not be seen by human eyes? A siren calling her close with its syrup-sweet voice?

She felt helpless as Odysseus's crew to resist it.

Then she was there.

The dark, ominous sounds, she found, were coming from the music room. They were a hurricane of noise and torment that drew tears out of her, that made her want to scream and moan and dance all at once. They screamed. They swooned.

Go in, Satan murmured. Have a look.

Rules, Miss Pross hastened to remind, stopping Hermione in a beat. Do not forget the rules, Ladybird. Go back to your room. Don't make trouble. English flowers never make trouble.

Hermione bit her lip, indecisive.

Or, suggested Psyche suddenly, just listen.

That was something Hermione could do. She stepped forward, breaths shallow and feet soundless. She knew who lay on the other side of the door. For who other than Master Riddle could play piano in this gargantuan house? But what was he doing up well past midnight, playing music? Didn't he have to go to school tomorrow? And what made the chords strike so hard, sound so empty and yet so rich, so chaotic? So lost?

She sat down in front of the door and pressed her ear close to it, listening and memorizing and feeling all of Master Riddle's music. Her heart beat fast as she imagined how he might look, his head bent over the piano, long fingers flying over the keys, hammering away and thrown into the bouts of passion and far past reconciliation. His dark eyes would bellow as the piano cried under his hands, his thin lip curled in concentration, the Cupid's bow of it begging to be traced by another mouth…

And he might catch her watching him. He might scold her for it or smile at her in that indecipherable way of his that made her pulse leap so. Maybe he'd have her sit down beside him, to correct her form and breeze those soft lips across the back of her hand, to breeze his lips over her neck and further down…

Hermione closed her eyes and listened.

AN: Uh-oh. Hermione's turning into a little tricksy Eve, ain't she, Satan? *Satan agrees* Anywho, thanks for reading everyone. Queries? Any thoughts on Master Riddle's plan 2.0? His undeniable attractiveness? The lemons that are just chapters away? Romance? Anarchy? Violent gas?

Ignore that last one.

Kisses,
ImmortalObsession