As she often did, Hermione felt the back of her neck prickle with the sensation of being watched.

She sat near the front of Transfiguration on purpose, eager to be taught by a wizard whom she knew to be more than formidable, and paid Professor Dumbledore even more attention than she did anyone else. Any observer would have simply thought this to be her favorite subject, but Hermione held these stolen classes as extra time with a man already gone.

Quick as a cat, she spared a single, withering glare towards her watcher.

Did he not have anything better to do? Did he really disregard this Professor so easily?

Though meant to be a pointed look, Hermione found her eyes snagged by the smirk on Tom Riddles' admittedly attractive face. He had classic good looks. That smirk suggested devilish things. Mostly, Hermione was caught by the fervor that sometimes shone in his eyes – she thought this was his inner madness leaking out, unable to be contained.

Today, his eyes danced so madly that she got goosebumps.

Her head snapped back around. Dumbledore, having noticed her distraction, said nothing but gave her a knowingly disappointed look... it made Hermione feel awful and, for the remainder of class, she very pointedly did not look back at the Head Boy.

Even not looking, Hermione could still feel the sensation of being watched. It did not let up even when they practiced a complex transfiguration spell. It did not let up even when the smooth baritone of Tom rang out the answer to a question Dumbledore hadn't really asked.

When class was dismissed, she puttered around until everyone had left before gathering her things to go. The feeling had faded, finally, and her shoulders slumped in relief. That is, until she rounded the corner and stopped dead. Tom Riddle blocked her path for a long moment, their eyes connected, and then strode confidently around her.

As if caught in his orbit, Hermione found herself turning and half-jogging to catch up to him.