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Will … finish… this… story…

Speechwriter

"Are you sure this is a good idea? My just showing up unannounced?" Hermione hissed.

Riddle hushed her, pressing the elevator button. "Calm down, sweetheart –"

"And haven't we spoken about the sweetheart thing? You sound like a forty-year-old woman when you say that –"

"I suppose we're even, then, since you sound like one all the time –"

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione folded her arms as they exited the elevator.

He grinned.

A voice came from behind them. "Riddle."

They turned. Malfoy approached them, blond hair glinting in the torchlight, lazy imperious look on his face. "Punctual as usual, I'm happy to see." He turned his eyes on Hermione. "Glad to see you here, too. Tom asked me if he might bring you."

Hermione swallowed and nodded. They entered a room she'd never seen, a room without desks and with a tiered floor, lecture-hall style. She and Tom joined the line of boys on the second step who stood in deathly silence. Her eyes flicked over their faces and caught on Cygnus, who stared at her like he'd never seen her before in his life.

Aquilus Lestrange's mouth drooped open for a second at the sight of her, but he caught himself. His jaw snapped shut with a click.

"Evening, gentlemen," Malfoy said, throwing himself into a chair and putting his feet up on another. "Avery. Numbers."

Avery cleared his throat. "P/E ratio rose by .2 since Monday, sir. Dividend yield, three percent; week's high, forty-five pounds, eight pence."

Malfoy nodded. "Good. Stable, then." He turned silvery eyes on Riddle. "You've sent my package, I trust, Mr. Riddle?"

Hermione swallowed and fidgeted.

"Oh, of course. How rude of me," Malfoy said. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to welcome Hermione Granger, a new advisor."

A murmur of welcome.

"We'll be very interested to see what Ms. Granger has to offer." Malfoy shook back his hair. "For now, we should return to proceedings. Riddle. You've sent the package?"

Hermione's palms sweated as she cast a glance at Riddle. What would Malfoy do if he found out Riddle hadn't sent it? They'd looked at it that very afternoon, talked over some numbers, deciphered some spots where error was obvious. And how did Malfoy keep a group of teenage boys this quiet, this serious?

"No," Riddle murmured.

Malfoy let out a sigh. "Well, Tom, that's a shame, isn't it?"

A muscle flexed in Riddle's jaw. Hermione felt humiliated on his behalf. How could his dignity stand that much condescension?

"Would you please join me?" Malfoy said. "Come on. Come down."

Riddle stepped down and crossed to Malfoy's side.

"Hold out your hand palm-down," Malfoy said. Riddle obliged. Then Malfoy took a lighter from his pocket. "Keep your hand there. And that's an order."

Hermione realized she wasn't breathing.

What was he going to do? What sort of freakish cult had she walked into?

Malfoy flicked the lighter a couple of times before it flared to life, and lifted it until it sat a mere two inches below Riddle's hand. Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, and Malfoy looked the dark-haired boy calmly in the eye. "In the future," he said, with agonizing slowness, "I hope this proves a reminder to follow my orders, so certain other orders aren't necessary. Are we clear?"

Riddle's mouth had dropped open, his eyes shut, his face creased with agony. Hermione wanted to bolt to the front of the room, knock him out of the way, but shock paralyzed her.

"Are we clear?" Malfoy repeated.

"Yes, sir." The words were strangled. Malfoy clicked the lighter off, and Riddle turned his hand palm-up, exposing the bloody oozing burn to the rest of the room.

Hermione made a high-pitched noise of fury and strode to the center of the room. "Oh my God. Oh my God, you need to get to the Infirmary."

"Granger," Malfoy said, voice coated with silky charisma. "Please cease the dramatics."

"Dramatics?" Hermione's pulse thudded in her ears as she rounded on him. "Could you please cease your ego trip? I don't care who you are; you can't do that to a person!"

"And if either you or Mr. Riddle cares to continue in the company's employment, you'll stop speaking immediately."

Hermione opened her mouth and prepared to snap – she would find some other way to take down VoldeMart, some other way to fix it, she didn't care – but Tom's good hand slipped onto her shoulder, and his whisper tickled the back of her neck. "Please. No."

She choked back words, pursed her lips tight, and stepped back from Malfoy, heat pouring through every inch of her. How dare he. How dare he. The same boy who had ordered Caroline Longbottom poisoned and half-drowned – the same boy she'd pegged as a bad sort from the start – it made her skin itch with hatred.

Malfoy lit a cigarette and stuck his lighter back in his pocket. He nodded to the line, and Riddle retreated instantly.

Hermione allowed herself a second longer of mutinous glaring before following Riddle's trail of blood.

Then they got on with business.

oOo

"Are you serious?" Ron yelped. "That's demented. Harry, are you hearing this?"

"I've a mind to come over there and set the bloke straight myself," Harry said darkly.

"I can't believe this is happening," Hermione said. "I'm still reeling. I've no idea what to do, or how to approach this. Tom's got a scar on his hand – I could show a teacher, but he'd probably make up some excuse to remove blame from Malfoy. He's already shown that he's putting the company first."

That was the problem, wasn't it? As long as Tom Riddle put the company first – as long as he saw it as the most important thing in his life – he would put up with Malfoy's antics. She just needed him to care about something else more. Schoolwork? No – he already had perfect marks in everything. His social life? He'd told her in Life Skills that everything social would come second to work.

She couldn't think of a thing. With someone as apathetic as he was, she found it difficult even to conceive that he might start to care about something more than this.

He obviously cared about his future. He cared about himself, too. She would have thought, in the interest of self-preservation, he'd find a less … painful occupation.

Where to go from there?

"Here's an idea," Harry said. "How about you invite him to start your own company?"

"Oh, he certainly doesn't care about me enough to drop his friends and –" Hermione bit her lip. What if he did care about her, though? And if he didn't, could she make him? Had Tom Riddle ever had a serious girlfriend? "I'll … call you later," she said quietly, and hung up, toying with the idea. What did Tom want in a woman? Could she exemplify that, sway him to her side?

She lay back on her bed, exhaustion holding her limbs loose. She'd been sleeping little, her work and Head Girl duties piling up.

But she couldn't let this continue. What if she was next?

Her hands flexed compulsively.

oOo

The days turned into weeks, and Caroline Longbottom still hadn't returned to reclaim her position as Head Girl. Hermione hadn't left, either, to visit family or friends. Frankly, she didn't have the time on weekends. Zara and Mafalda insisted they go out every Saturday, but besides that brief block of time, she worked non-stop. Riddle commented on it rather more than necessary.

"You do too many things," he said flatly during Chemistry. "You're looking awful."

"Thank you for your sympathy."

"Oh, no problem."

Meanwhile, Hermione had started asking around for clues as to Myrtle's death. She hadn't managed to wring much information out of the school population – the most she had was from Mafalda, who'd said, "Well, Myrtle had the distinction of joining Lenny Bruce, Elvis Presley, and Judy Garland when she died."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She died in a bathroom too. Other than that, no one's really sure how it happened. But a rumor got out that it wasn't natural, if you know what I mean."

"A bathroom? How? And if it was a … a murder, why haven't they arrested anyone?"

Mafalda shrugged. "Questioned a bunch of people, but never found any DNA or anything. Anyway, they've set the place off-limits now. It's on the second floor somewhere – you know, that boarded-up room."

Hermione did know that room. It was only one hallway away from the Head Boy and Girl quarters.

And so it was that Hermione Granger found herself sneaking out of her room at midnight on a Tuesday, intending to break into a bathroom where a girl had been murdered. If, this time last year, someone had told her she'd be doing this, she would have snorted hard enough to injure her sinuses. And yet.

Armed with a screwdriver, she approached the door. Her throat tightened as she examined the situation more closely: Four thick planks had been screwed tight in with countless metal studs. This would take hours. If only there were some way to magically blast the damn things out of the way … but no such luck. Hermione sighed, crouched, and got to work.

Half an hour later, silver screws littered the floor. It was about then that she thought to look around for any security cameras. Surely Hogwarts would have surveillance of some sort, though she didn't know if they'd have someone monitoring it all the time.

As she craned her neck toward the dark ceiling – the warm incandescent lights were dimmed – a noise reached her ears. A voice. She froze. Did Hogwarts teachers patrol around the school at night, looking for miscreants? There was always Filch, the caretaker, a young and malicious man who never seemed to sleep or do anything besides complain at people. But there would be no reason for him to speak, unless he had randomly turned into a crazy old cat lady and was talking to himself …

Hermione shook herself back to her senses with a quiet curse. Two planks lay on the floor, amid probably thirty screws. She had nowhere to hide them – and nowhere to hide herself.

Unless –

Hermione gritted her teeth and shoved the planks under the crack in the bathroom door. They made a terrible whining noise going through, and the screws rattled as she scooped them in afterward – but now all she had to do was get back around the corner and pretend she was going to the bathroom on the other side. Easy.

She stumbled to her feet, sparing a wild glance around for a Filch flashlight beam, and dashed for the corner.

Then she realized the voice was coming from around the corner, and she skidded to a stop. Hermione bit her lip until the bitter taste of blood coated her tongue. Could she pull the 'new student, took a wrong turn' card? If it were the middle of the night and she really had just woken up, she could be a little disoriented – she'd have to do something to get back into Filch's good graces, but he should buy her story – she shouldn't get in any real trouble –

But then she realized the voice wasn't getting closer.

Hermione peeked around the corner.

No one there.

And the voice wasn't Filch's.

She crept toward Tom's door, making sure not to cast a shadow in front of it, and listened.

"Yes, Mulciber," he said quietly. "I understand if it gets out – but it's not going to get out, do you understand?" A brief pause, and then Riddle's voice lowered. Hermione heard the menace she'd seen in his eyes a couple times, and she took an instinctive step backward. "How dare you bring that up," he murmured. "How dare you mention it. You presume too much."

He paused, and said, "No, that's of no consequence. I tested it the first night she got here – she sleeps like a rock. Even more so than Longbottom."

Hermione's mouth dropped open of its own accord. He'd tested what?

"Fine," he hissed. "I'll move, if you'll stop your endless and unjustifiable paranoia." Hermione saw the light turn on under the door, and then she saw his shadow approach the door.

She sprinted for the corner and slipped out of sight just as the door creaked open.

Hermione's pulse pounded. Was he coming in her direction? What was Riddle even doing, talking to Finrigo Mulciber – an age-old seatholder at VoldeMart's board of directors – in the middle of the night?

The clicking of his brisk footsteps approached her. Dear God, he was probably heading for the elevators. It was a long, straight hallway. She had to make a break for it.

"What do you mean, they want to cancel the merger?" Riddle's voice snapped around the bend. "I absolutely will not hear a word of that. Tell the board to sweeten the deal somehow – we're already absolving all their debt, what the hell more do they want? Bastards!"

Even as she fled down the hall, shock froze through her limbs. This did not sound like a follower's duty. This did not sound like the area of expertise of a subordinate.

An alcove was dug into the wall for a stained glass window. At the end of the hall, elevators – a dead end.

She ducked into the alcove and curled up into as small a ball as possible. Riddle's voice hounded her, echoing off the night. "Oh, and next time, give me more than seven hours' notice when you want a conference call. Abraxas isn't always going to be able to lend me his mobile on demand; the boy is infuriatingly difficult to locate at any given point in time." He turned the corner and his elongated shadow shook its head. "I'm not happy, you realize. There will be consequences for your asinine behavior."

How did Malfoy fit into this, now that she thought of it? Was Riddle simply acting on his behalf? It certainly didn't sound like it.

"Your daughter's health does not excuse your actions." His voice was bitter cold. He hardly even sounded like himself. What had happened to the casual, friendly boy who'd shown her around Hogwarts? The boy who was overconfident, perhaps, but whose actions had all been perfectly normal?

And then he said, "As your superior, I hardly think it's your place to argue, even if our physical distance does prevent me from direct disciplinary action."

As your superior. Disciplinary action.

He'd never been normal, Hermione realized. He'd lied. She'd given him far too much benefit of the doubt, all because of that stupid crush she'd had on him once.

Her fingernails dug into her palms, and her lips tightened. Business did not mix with matters of the heart. And if she wanted to make a difference, she would have to accept how heartless he was.

He'd manipulated Zara, sexually coerced her. He'd emotionally and psychologically manipulated Hermione. Scholarship student or not – brilliant or not – dammit, handsome or not – it couldn't change that he was a liar. Everything he'd pinned on Malfoy, the Caroline incident, the packet of corruption … she should've gone with her gut. She should have known. Should have gone straight to Dumbledore, not let him soothe her with his tragic background.

And now she was entrenched in his operation.

Why? Why did he want her on his side? Surely he couldn't stoop to thinking he needed her help… though the idea, she had to admit, was flattering. Tom Riddle needing her. Needing her enough to let Abraxas Malfoy raze a bloody burn into his palm.

In any case, she'd have to let it play out, at least until she could find a way to get her hands on a damn copy of those documents. She needed proof.

But in turning him in, would she be turning herself in? She'd been to one of their meetings. She'd talked over economic policy with Riddle, made plans …

She shrank back as he started forward again. His lean figure cut its way through the moonlight, one arm's muscles flexed, the fist clenched so tight it shook. But as he passed the half-boarded-up door, he did a double-take and stopped in his tracks.

Hermione peered out at him as he walked slowly to the door. "Mulciber," he whispered, "I'll have to call you back in a moment. I've just discovered something …" He snapped the phone shut. "…very, very odd."

He trailed his fingers over the holes in the doorframe where the other boards had been screwed in.

Without warning, his head whipped around, checking down each end of the hall. Hermione pulled herself back into the alcove, praying he hadn't seen a lock of her hair flash in retreat. But she seemed safe – his footsteps didn't resume.

When she chanced another glance, he had taken a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and started twisting out the remaining screws.

She sat there until her muscles ached, mulling over the significance of his deception. This meant he was the reason for her parents getting fired. Every bit of information she'd entrusted to him about her life, he'd probably disdained. He really had no clue about what it was like to be poor, did he? Could he really have no place to go but an orphanage, like he'd said, if he was being paid millions a year? He probably had summer homes in Florida and the Caribbean, just like every other person in Hogwarts. He probably wasn't even on scholarship. And he'd sympathized with her, told her he understood the inconveniences of financial restriction. The slimeball.

She fantasized about shoving that sneaky manipulative VoldeMart CEO into that bathroom and walling him up inside it, a la The Cask of Amontillado. And a couple of times, when the muscles of his back flexed through his thin white t-shirt, she fantasized about significantly different events that instantly caused her maximum self-disgust.

Dammit, why was evil so superficially appealing?

He pulled the last board away, laid it on the ground, and opened the door. As he entered, Hermione rose from her place, not knowing exactly what she was doing.

He shut the door after him. Damn.

She heard four metallic beeps echo out into the hallway.

That was not a normal noise for a bathroom.

Hermione strained to hear more. Was that a creak? The rustling of papers? Excitement throttled her. She just had to find out what was in there – what he'd hidden in that bathroom –

It hit her like a hammer to the temple. She staggered back, clasping her hands over her mouth to restrain the squeak that threatened to escape.

Myrtle.

Myrtle had died in that bathroom. Riddle had hidden secret documents in that bathroom. Myrtle had found them, and he'd killed her.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., was a murderer. Dumbledore was right. Of course Dumbledore was right. Every second Riddle treaded the halls of Hogwarts, the students were in danger. She needed to report this. She had to report it …

But first, she needed proof.

It all boiled down to those papers.

His footsteps again, and Hermione dove back into the alcove, shivering a bit. Had the stones of Hogwarts always been this cold, this dark, this dirty? Or was it just now that she realized exactly how deep this rabbit hole went, and how far she'd have to crawl to extract herself?

oOo

"Good morning!" Granger sang.

Tom stared her down, unimpressed. She seemed even more peppy than usual. He decided there was a strong positive correlation between her peppiness and how much he wanted to stab her. "You revolt me. You morning people. All of you."

"Oh, Tom, you're so funny and clever," she said in a high, false voice. He scowled, and she continued. "Aren't you excited for another day of chemistry?"

"You know me." He turned toward Slughorn. "Always ready to drink from the fountain of Slughorn's eternal knowledge."

Actually, mused Riddle, there was something to be said for Slughorn. The man knew a lot – even about things not necessarily in his subject area. Tom had, in fact, utilized a couple of tidbits of Slug-knowledge the year before last, after ruining his father and grandparents. A couple of overseas accounts under false names had done the trick – and it was thanks to Sluggy's know-how. Now, even if VoldeMart suddenly crashed, he had a few accounts with millions.

Even if he couldn't access them until after his birthday.

Riddle's jaw tightened. It was November 10th – time had rushed by without warning. Only a month and a half until his fortune would be his.

His lips twitched. The first thing he would do? Go shopping. It was frivolous to the point of irony, and he appreciated irony. (Almost as much as he appreciated Animal Collective.)

Riddle tousled his hair, holding back a yawn. He needed to arrange another meeting later this week, and he needed to make a plan for Granger. So much to do, so few hours in the day.

He realized he hadn't had any sort of sexual gratification in over a week. No wonder his … frustrations had pent up so much in the interim. Perhaps he ought to give Iris Parkinson a call – he'd heard she'd started dating Nick Abbott, but did that really matter? He was Tom Riddle. Pretentious Raven Club members who watched Annie Hall movies could wait.

Next to him, Granger shook back her hair, her eyes flicking up and down her paper. Riddle mused – with irony, of course – that he could probably just ask Granger if she wanted to hook up. The girl was absolutely wrapped around his finger at this point. So much so that she'd started to lose her sparkle. She was still intelligent, of course – still, in hypothesis, useful as a business tool – but as a person, that odd sort of intrigue she'd held about her had faded.

He found himself disappointed.

And that was stupid. Why should he want a challenge? What he wanted was for everyone to fall to his feet; that was what he really needed. Some stubborn bint with an obnoxious penchant for being too observant didn't fit into that mold.

Also, it made him uncomfortable how many facts she knew about him. Admittedly, he knew just as many about her, if not more, but still. One did not just know things about Tom Marvolo Riddle. He'd already contacted the Little Hangleton newspaper and asked them to remove the offending articles from Google (as a "matter of sensitivity," he'd called it).

"By the way," Hermione whispered, and flicked something silver across the desk at him. "You should wear this."

It was a badge. The acronym read, Society for the Protection of Economic Welfare.

Riddle smirked. "Spew?"

"It's not spew, it's S.P.E.W."

He settled back in his chair and felt a strange urge to smile. Really smile. He squashed the notion instantly, of course. Tom Riddle did not smile unless intoxicated with some substance or other.

"Fine, fine, I'll wear your damned badge." He pinned it onto his black t-shirt, if only because he needed her to trust him. And because it was ironic.

oOo

Visiting Day came that weekend. When Harry and Ron walked into the Entrance Hall, gazing around with nothing less than awe, Hermione flung herself around their necks. "Thank God you're here. I've been going insane."

She disengaged herself, took a step back, and scrutinized their grinning faces. Harry's skinny features were as rugged as usual, Ron's broad smile as endearing as ever. Affection swept through Hermione, and she hugged them again, tighter. "I have so much to tell you," she whispered. Her mobile's meager minutes had run out, and she hadn't wanted to relegate this conversation to email. "Shall we walk around the grounds?"

"Ooh, grounds," said Ron, shooting a glance at Harry.

"Oh, yes, because my school has a campus," Harry said, in his most posh accent.

"And its own train," Ron added.

"And its own cell phone tower," Harry said. "And fancy rooms and fancy food and fancy classes no other school has."

Ron sniggered. "I suppose it also gives you magic wands and a pet unicorn when you arrive, does it?"

Hermione sighed. "Do shut up. You two are as bad as Fred and George." She led them down toward the lake, which glimmered in the midday sun.

Once she made sure they were alone, she explained what she'd learned.

Any humor in the boys' faces faded little by little. By the end, Ron had both hands buried in his red hair, and Harry's green eyes were laser-keen.

"So, in short, I've gone in too deep to extract myself until I have concrete evidence," she finished, lying back on the grass. "I don't want to worry you – I'm just letting you know, in case."

"In case what?" Ron said indignantly. "Hermione. How do you expect us not to be worried about this? He's a bloody murderer."

She swallowed, trying not to look at Ron for too long. The sight of him, the proximity of him, reminded her too keenly of the feel of his skin. "I'll handle it," she said. "If I think I'm in danger, I'll go straight to Dippet or Dumbledore. That's a promise."

Harry shook his head. "Authority never does anything to help."

"Dumbledore would. I've seen the way he keeps an eye on Riddle. He really doesn't like him."

"With reason," Ron muttered.

Hermione bit her lip and said nothing.

Harry gave her a wary look. "You don't still think of him as a friend, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I just … I'm having difficulty discerning what's true and what's false about what he told me." It was a lie. She couldn't help enjoying being around Tom, even though she knew it was the false Tom. His false face. She'd developed a friendship with a person who didn't exist, and stupidly, selfishly, she didn't want to let go of it.

"The worst part is not being able to talk about it with Mafalda and Zara," Hermione sighed. This part was true; she hadn't told them a thing about her illicit goings-on, not wanting to involve them further in Riddle affairs. Mafalda and Cygnus seemed to be getting serious, which made for good conversation fodder, so the lack of her talking about it wasn't really felt – but Hermione hated having to sever her friends from this part of her life.

"Shall we go to Hogsmeade?" she suggested.

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"That town, about a mile that way." She pointed. "It's got a joke shop, a post office, a sweet shop … I think you'll like it."

"Sweets? Excellent. Let's go," said Harry, standing. Ron and Hermione traded a grin. Some things would never change.

"By the way," she said, "you should wear these badges."

"Wotsit – does this say Spew?"

"IT'S NOT SPEW."

oOo

Hermione dragged them along to the pool that night. Ron ran into his cousins, the distant Weasleys. Harry and Ron also met – and got along famously with – Mafalda and Zara.

"Oh my God," said Zara. "Harry Potter? You were the one who survived that bombing."

Harry shrugged. "I was one. So it was more luck than anything, really –"

"Wow, still."

Hermione laughed. "I forgot what it's like, being around people who don't know you."

"Must be nice to forget," Harry muttered.

"Cheer up, mate!" roared Ron, shoving another beer into Harry's hand and draining his sixth. "Just dance, it'll be okay."

As Zara steered Ron and Harry into the yelling, jumping, fistpumping crowd, Mafalda eyed their retreating backs. "So," she said to Hermione, "that's your ex-boyfriend? The redhead?"

"Yeah." Hermione shoved her hands in her jeans pockets. "Seeing him again is a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"That happens. I dated Trent last year, you know. It was awkward for a while."

"Trent?" Hermione spluttered. "But he's a Huff'n'Puff."

"Oh, I know. That's why we broke up. I told him to stop being so … well, the pot killed his personality."

"Doesn't Cygnus smoke?"

"Cigarettes." Mafalda folded her meaty arms, raising one thin eyebrow. "And not for much longer, if I've anything to say about it. I've always thought it was awful, his whole crowd smoking. Completely going to ruin their good looks. Such a waste."

Hermione nodded.

Mafalda yawned. "I should probably get to bed. I'm awfully tired."

"But it's only ten."

"Well." She shrugged. "I didn't spend last night in my dorm, if you know what I mean."

Hermione's jaw went slack as Mafalda left, shooting a sly grin over her shoulder.

"I want details," Hermione called after her. "You're not getting off that easily."

A hand on her shoulder. She turned around. "Tom. I … what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Just wondering if you'd like to run some figures."

Her smile faded. "I actually have some friends here for Visiting Day. I haven't seen them since September, so I really wanted to –"

"'Mione!" Ron's voice called, and his warm hand grabbed her arm, pulling her around. "Come dance. Please?"

She saw Ron's eyes fall on Riddle, saw the recognition in his face as his hand slackened on her arm. Harry made his way out of the crowd with eyes fixed on Riddle, too.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Tom, these are my best friends."

"Harry Potter. Ron Weasley." Riddle nodded. "Hermione doesn't shut up about you."

"And you're Tom Riddle," Harry said. "She doesn't shut up about you, either."

"Harry," Hermione hissed. Why had he said that? Oh, this was not good, the combative Harry being in such close proximity to Tom. Conflict was inevitable. She had to separate them somehow.

Riddle wore a slight smirk. He brushed his hair back. "I see you two have joined Spew as well."

"It's S.P.E.W.," Ron said.

Hermione laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. "An hour ago, you were calling it Spew, too, Ronald."

The tips of Ron's ears went red, and he muttered something.

"What was that?" Riddle said coolly.

"Nothing, nothing," Hermione said. "You know, Tom, if this school assignment is that important, I'll be happy to take a look."

His eyes wandered over Ron for a second longer before he turned his attention back to her. "Yeah," he said softly. "I'd like that."

Why was he using that intimate tone of voice? Hermione fought back a splotchy blush. "Er. All right. I'm sorry, Harry, Ron, we've got to run. This … project."

Harry and Ron traded a look, and then Harry gave a tiny nod.

As Riddle and Hermione headed back through the courtyard, he said, "You're a terrible liar, you know."

"Oh, I know." I also know I'm a better liar than you will ever realize.

"So, you won't shut up about me, is that right?"

She gritted her teeth. "I'll make you shut up, if you're not careful."

But even as she said it, she realized how perfect a smokescreen a seeming crush would be. His inflated ego would see her false infatuation, and her other, far more important concealments would fade into the background.

Hermione was embarrassed to think how easy it would be to pretend to be interested in him.

He opened the door for her, and they went inside.

X

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EEEK I wrote a chapter

I'm going to write others now

-speechwriter