A/N: This chapter will have some disturbing consent issues.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Gilderoy Lockhart L.V.?

Tuesday, October 18th, 1943

Potions Classroom

What Riddle had meant by "taking care of Igneus" became clear the next day, when Igneus approached Hermione in the Great Hall during another hostile breakfast, where she had thwarted four separate attacks by Tarts, and apologized to her loudly for suspecting her. He had also apparently bathed, eaten, and slept recently, which was surprising. After Hermione hesitantly accepted his apology, she had noticed a drastic upswing in the amount of people who were willing to talk to her pleasantly. Apparently Igneus Malfoy's word meant that much. She didn't know, however, how willing she was to pleasantly talk to them. Harry, she thought for the millionth time, would have understood entirely.

Hermione had wandered down to the dungeons with Evelyn, who had truly proved herself to be a real friend, and Brigitte. Riddle had immediately, to her complete lack of surprise, attempted to sit with her at a table, until Professor Bowers had wandered by and hissed something to him about inappropriate behavior, and then he had turned bright pink and moved next to Belinda Harper.

It wasn't, Hermione reflected, stirring her cauldron clockwise, then counterclockwise, then clockwise, just Igneus that Riddle had seemed to have taken care of. There was a large surge in random Hogwarts students she had never talked to going out of their way to be kind to her. Thaddeus Nott and Logan Parkinson had almost fought over who got to carry her books, Avery and Mulcibur had smiled at her and said hello, a boy in Ravenclaw she had never spoken to and didn't know his name had presented her with a flower, and another unknown Slytherin had given her a box of chocolates, compliments of "You-Know-Who." The unknown Slytherin had not understood in the slightest why this had caused Hermione to yelp and throw the chocolates, but perhaps he had overdone the wink, and that had upset her. She was, after all, rather strange.

Far from finding it flattering, Hermione thought as she brought her cauldron to a boil, it had been horrifying to realize who Riddle's true followers were. It was not the Slytherin Snob Squad who was her enemy. It was these mostly boys, mostly Slytherins who she had rarely seen interact with Riddle at all. Conniving. He was the most conniving person that had ever lived. Hermione did not know what to believe about Belinda Harper. She did not want to believe the sweet girl was a Voldemort follower, but she stuck to Riddle like glue. It was possible, that she, like Igneus, had been Riddle's façade, his pretend normal friends, who had no idea about the monster he really was, and the others his minions. She wanted to believe that, very badly. Hermione never even considered that the last two people who were being kind to her, Evelyn and Brigitte, had anything to do with Riddle.

Hermione looked up when she felt someone's eyes on her, and of course, it was Riddle, Riddle smiling his "seductive" smile at her while everyone else concentrated on their potions, and Hermione looked hurriedly away, her skin crawling, the phantom feeling of Riddle's warm hand tracing patterns on her leg. The more she thought about it, the more foolish she felt for not realizing that Riddle could only be seduced by power. No girly tricks, no kind behavior would have worked, never, but all she had had to do was hex the hell out of five people in front of him, and he was obsessed. Or, she thought as she dumped in a strand of unicorn hair, he was pretending to be obsessed, for reasons known only to him. Either way, she had won. So why did she feel so sick? Why did she flee, as soon as class ended, to the Room of Requirement, now that the kitchens were no longer safe, to hide from him?

"I can't," she whispered to her knees, her head buried in the tiny ball she made on the floor, "I can't do it, Harry. I can't do it. I can't touch him." And she cried, thinking about what a coward she really was.

Wednesday, October 26th, 1943

Library

8:45 PM

"You've been avoiding me again, Hermione," Riddle said, his voice an inch from her ear.

Hermione jumped, dropping her books onto the floor, no further in her research to what had happened to Estelle and Audrey, but unwilling to let the library fail her on this.

She wheeled around, her back pressed against a particularly deserted part of the divination section, and Riddle loomed in her face, one arm against the bookshelf, trapping her there.

"Not—not at all, Tom," she said.

He gave her a half-smile, his eyes dark again.

"What would you call running away from me after every class, avoiding the Great Hall, sitting as far away from me in class as possible, then?"

"I'd call it," Hermione said, straightening up, throwing back her hair, "being smart. Every time I so much as look at you I get points taken from Gryffindor by some Professor or other. Every time you try to touch me—"

Riddle's smile grew, his expression wicked, and Hermione could not believe she missed his fake Everyone's Favorite Tragic Humble Orphan smile, but she did. Tremendously.

"Every time you try to touch me," she repeated, "something horrible happens, or someone catches us. Don't deny it."

Riddle shrugged, his hand moving closer on the bookshelf to her neck.

"I'm just—" Hermione fumbled for the right way to say it, with him this close to her for the first time in a week, and she could feel his body heat, and when she had gone so long without being close to him, she had almost forgotten how handsome he really was. "I'm just trying to be smart," she said finally. "I don't want a repeat of what happened in the Great Hall."

"Oh I don't know," Riddle murmured, his leg now joining his arm on leaning against the bookshelf, brushing her own leg, "I think I enjoyed watching that quite a lot."

Hermione blushed, horribly, humiliated, disgusted, but energizeds that Riddle was trusting her, in a way, with his true personality. She had a feeling this happened very little.

"Can you show me," he said, voice even lower, hand trailing onto her neck lightly, "some of those spells?"

"I—I can't even remember what I used," Hermione said truthfully, "I was so angry."

Riddle gave a short noise, a combination of a laugh and a huff, his eyes lighting up, scaring Hermione.

"I understand,' he whispered, his eyes staring at her intently, "completely."

And he bridged that last inch between them and kissed her.

Hermione gave a muffled squawking noise into his mouth, and unbidden, she could hear a phantom voice, Blaise's voice, saying "Lesson one. When a bloke kisses you, don't squeak. It doesn't exactly fill us with confidence."

This remembrance of Blaise and his cheeky advice cleared her mind, filled her with confidence, sure now what she should do, what she must do. She leaned in to Riddle's surprisingly soft kiss, and licked at his lips, tongue darting between them.

Riddle gave his own squawking noise at that, and Hermione couldn't help but smile, smile even as she knew that she was snogging the most evil wizard of all time. Riddle's tongue brushed against her hesitantly, their open mouths sliding together, his hand moving to the back of her head, drawing her in closer, his other arm holding them steady and upright. Hermione's hands gripped the front of his uniform, her lips moving aggressively on Riddle's, but that was how he liked it, somehow she knew that, and then she pushed him away without warning.

Riddle stumbled, looking more astounded than she did about what had just happened, his pupils dilated, his breathing heavy, his perfect lips wet and slightly open. He drew one hand, shaking, across his lips, staring at her all the while.

"Now," Hermione said bossily, and she realized, as Riddle dropped his act around her, that she was dropping her act around him, "no more of that for awhile. I'm sick of getting harassed by everyone Riddle, so you'll leave me alone until the dance." Riddle's eyes widened, and Hermione was quite sure a girl had never talked to him like this, had never demanded something so forcefully of handsome perfect prefect Tom Riddle. "And," she said, picking up her books, "I'm going as Titania, since you insisted on Shakespeare. I have unfulfilled fairy fantasies, and they are going to come true. I've already transfigured my costume. That means you will come as Bottom."

"Bottom?" Riddle said, aghast, his slightly trembling hand moving away from his mouth, his eyes still wide as Hermione continued picking up her fallen books, "Bottom has the head of a donkey, Hermione."

"Your point?"

"I'm not going as a Donkey!"

"You said we should match!"

"So I'll go as Oberon! I think I'm already compromising by going as a fairy!"

"Well," Hermione said, haughty, books firmly in her arms once again, "I suppose that will do."

And she left Riddle, confused and off balance, lips still red from their snogging, a feeling of extreme disgust warring with smugness. It was not, after all, every day that you got the better of a Dark Lord.

Belinda Harper walked next to Lord Voldemort, her strides swift, her expression cold, as they descended into a little known portion of the dungeons.

"I hope," she said, breaking the frosty silence between them, "that you are not taking me to your snogging spot with Granger."

Riddle narrowed his eyes at her, taking her cheek when no one else would dare even try with him.

"I don't have a snogging spot with Granger" he said at last, "you know I made that up, Belinda."

"But why?" she sneered, "Why are you obsessed with that liar? We know she's a phony! I brought you all my evidence, but you're lying for her, dating her, Jane Landy said you were practically on top of her in the library a week ago—"

"I am not obsessed," Riddle hissed, echoing their earlier conversation, "how many times do I have to tell you?"

"You want to fuck her," Belinda said bluntly, ignoring Riddle's flinch at her language use. He was so odd about the things that bothered him. "Don't deny it, Voldemort. I saw your face that day. You wanted to fuck her right there."

"You speak like a common whore," Riddle said, voice so cold he could freeze fire.

"You don't deny it!" Belinda laughed, color rising in her cheeks, as they made their way on the ever downwards slope, their breath misting in front of them. "Deny it, Riddle! You want that ugly Half-blood!"

"I want her knowledge," Riddle corrected her, color rising in his own cheeks, "that is all."

"Ha! Knowledge!" Belinda scoffed, "Is that what we're calling it now? I can't believe out of all the girls in the school, Jessamine Park, Carolyn McFadden, Ethelinda Higgs—"

"She's crazy, and a pureblood fanatic," Riddle cut in.

"-Susie Somerland," Belinda continued as if there had been no interruption, "Holly Andrews, Estelle Black—"

"She is a vegetable," Riddle said, "and also, a pureblood fanatic. Have you forgotten they look down at me?"

"But they are all beautiful!" Belinda said. It went unspoken between them that Belinda, who was rather lovely herself, had not been included in her list. "And you could have had any of them, any!"

"Not," Riddle reminded her, "Ethelinda or Estelle."

"I'm sure you could have convinced them eventually," Belinda sneered, "with your charm, but you chose that ugly Granger bitch!"
Riddle, thoroughly annoyed at this point, went for the jugular.

"Are you mad that I have interest in Granger's brain, Belinda, or that I have no romantic interest in you?"

Belinda sucked in a sharp gasp, and Riddle laughed.

"Thought I wouldn't say it to you, just to Evelyn?" he jeered at her. "Any girl in the school includes you, Belinda."

"It doesn't," she hissed, her face blotchy, "don't ever think it does."

Riddle stopped, and Belinda stopped too, and then he rattled her by pushing her against the wall, hard, pressing her with his hands, so close they were touching all over. Belinda's heart beat out of control, and when he leaned in to kiss her, her eyes shut of their own accord. She waited to feel his lips, finally, at last he was going to kiss her, and instead, she only felt the chill of the corridor. Riddle laughed, his high, Voldemort laugh, and Belinda's eyes snapped open, mortified. She couldn't believe she had fallen for that, and now Riddle was practically choking he was laughing so hard, tears squirting in the corners of his eyes.

"Belinda, Belinda," he said, bent double with laughter, as she stood there, frozen, "all you have to do is ask. I don't mind practicing my technique on you."

"Practicing your—practicing your-" Belinda felt faint, she was so humiliated, "practicing your technique on me!" she yelled. "I'm not a practicing technique girl, Riddle! I'm the type of girl you marry!"

Riddle laughed harder, his voice echoing in the corridor, on and on and on.

"Marry!" he choked, "Marry!"

"You're not practicing your technique on that Granger girl," she hissed, desperately trying to hurt him like he had hurt her. "You actually like her."

"Like her?" Riddle said, sounding wildly amused, "you should really know better than that, Belinda. I only want her mind."

"Her mind," Belinda sneered, "is not located in her arse, which you have been staring at an awful lot, Riddle."

Riddle apparently refused to be embarrassed, or admit his attraction to Granger, but merely laughed again as he started walking.

"It's also," Belinda continued relentlessly, half jogging to keep up with his long legs, "not located in her breasts."

Riddle snorted.

"Or," Belinda said, "in her lips."

Riddle smirked, and it was a different smirk than Belinda expected, it was a private smirk, as if he was remembering a joke she wouldn't understand.

"What—what's so funny?" Belinda said breathlessly, moving even faster now.

Riddle ignored her, and pushed open a door on their left. Inside, the other Knights of Walpurgis jumped to their feet, crying out a greeting to Riddle and Belinda, his chosen favorite.

"Avery," Riddle nodded to one wizard whose eyes were worshipfully misting at him, "good work with Granger last week. And you, Nott, and you, Rosier, and Mulcibur."

They all beamed at him, easily manipulated as usual, Belinda thought, angry. At least Evelyn Sanders was no longer attending these meetings. It was bad enough, having Riddle so close to her, yet not really wanting her, but with Sanders there, throwing herself at him…

Riddle nodded at the rest of the group, and then sat down in the most comfortable chair there, picking up a grape from a tray and popping it in his mouth. Belinda supposed she was supposed to be the half naked girl fanning him to complete the picture. She sat down at his right, stiff.

"What's the plan, my lord?" Parkinson asked.

"About what?" Riddle asked, popping another grape.

"With Granger," he said eagerly, "when is she joining? When will she teach us her spells?"

Belinda whipped round at Riddle, angry that he had apparently shared his plans for Granger with Logan Effen Parkinson but not her.

"I'm working on it," Riddle said carelessly, "and it helps if you lot continue to be nice to her while the other fools scorn her. Fawn over her at the dance. Try to get her to dance with you."

"Isn't—" Lestrange said hesitantly, "isn't she going with you, My Lord?"

"Yes," Riddle said, stuffing a piece of chocolate in his mouth now.

"And—" Avery said, confused, "you want us to—"

"Flirt with her, for Salazar's sake," Riddle said impatiently, waving a hand, "we're trying to win her over. She will be a great asset." He made it clear, through his manner, how little he cared about Granger being flirted with by the others, which made Belinda relax, just a fraction.

"Oh," Riddle said, yet more casually, "and I'm working on Malfoy, too."

"Phobos?" Parkinson said, sounding disgusted, "that wanker? Not that idiot Dougal!"

"Igneus," Riddle corrected.

They all exchanged glances, then looked hesitantly back at their lord.

"Lord Voldemort," Mulcibur said carefully, "Igneus Malfoy is the biggest blood traitor at this school."

"Yes, I know," Riddle said.

"So then how are you going to pull this off?" Belinda said, the only one daring enough to say the words.

"With skill, obviously," Riddle said.

There were a few moments of silence where they all waited for him to explain further, to no avail.

"Now, as for the girls," Riddle continued, "any updates?"

"They still are unable to communicate," Nott reported. He was often sickly, and had spent a fair amount of time in the Hospital Wing every year, and had been able to observe them.

"Hmm," Riddle said.

They waited again for more comments, and none came.

"Do you know who did it then, Tom?" Belinda finally asked disinterestedly, as the rest of the boys shot her looks, trying to get her to speak up when they were too scared to.

"Yes," Riddle said. He popped a cherry cordial, and bit into it with a crunch.

"And?" Belinda said, after more gestures from the others, when he stopped speaking again.

"And what?"
"Who was it?" she asked, still sounding bored.

Riddle looked at her sideways, and licked some chocolate off his fingers, very, very obscenely, and she turned a lovely shade of eggplant. Looking hastily away, she met the gaze of that idiot, Logan Parkinson, who smirked knowingly at her.

Riddle licked another finger slowly. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, Belinda. I've got it under control."

Belinda opened her mouth to retaliate, but Riddle's pronounced smirk in her direction quieted her, his tongue darting out to taste another cherry cordial, biting down on it, never breaking eye contact with her. She knew he was seconds away from telling the rest, without truly telling them, what had just happened in the hallway between them if she didn't shut up. She shut up.

"Now," Riddle said, "here's our spell of the week," and he pulled out his wand to teach them the latest nasty spell he had discovered.

The all brightened up at that, even Belinda, although she couldn't stop herself from darting quick looks at Riddle now and then. Every time she did, he smirked at her knowingly. Bastard. Fucking half-blood bastard. There would be a day, when he wouldn't smirk like that at her anymore.

Estelle Black was in hell. Or, more accurately, trapped in her own mind, unable to communicate, motionless, in pain, dying to tell someone, anyone that she was still there, don't give up on her, don't, get the person who did this to her, please please please—Audrey wasn't so lucky, Estelle knew. Audrey was broken, beyond repair, her mind completely gone. She had seen it happen, seen the wizards and witches torture it out of her, but the Black family was made of stronger stuff, and Estelle had retained her sanity, and then pretended like she had not. She thought, once they had let them go, she would be brave, like a Gryffindor, where the hat had seriously considered placing her, a fact she had never revealed to a single soul, and tell everyone what had happened, but they were too clever. They had cast something on both of them, and no matter how she fought, no matter how she tried, she remained immobile, trapped in her head.

There had been a moment, a brief, shining moment, when she had entered the dreams of Hermione Granger, who apparently was having inappropriate relations with Tom Riddle, based on the whispered conversation Madam Pomfrey had had with her, and tried to tell her what had happened. Granger had wanted to help. She had woken up, and asked Estelle who did it, and Estelle could only look at the ceiling, blank, while inside she screamed and screamed and screamed.

Estelle deeply regretted how she had treated Granger before, because now it seemed like everyone else had given up on her, even her brother Patrick had stopped coming to visit so often. But she couldn't enter Granger's dreams once she had left the hospital wing, apparently her one power left couldn't project that far. And Madam Pomfrey was useless, completely immune to Estelle's dream imagery. Every time she entered her dreams, the matron would tell her to wake up, sternly, and then would help another patient in her mind. Useless bitch. It seemed funny, after all this, that her one ally, her one hope, was a bushy headed Half-blood who was mating with Tom Riddle. But there it was. Someone had to know. Someone had to know the truth before it was too late.

Monday, October 31st, 1943

Gryffindor Dormitory

7:15 PM

"'Ermione, you look—you look—" Brigitte stumbled for the words in English, and then gave up, "tres magnifique!" she squealed, studying her friend, smile wide.

Hermione smiled back at her, as the other girls in their dormitory gave her a wide berth, as usual, expecting her to sprout fangs and start hissing at them at any moment, still. It was bothering her less and less.

"You look very beautiful too, Brigitte," Hermione said, looking at Brigitte's traditional Rococo gown, her blond hair shining like gold.

Marion Hinsley walked by with a sniff, her costume some wizarding reference Hermione clearly didn't get, but which left her with a severely modest gown that covered her wrist to neck to ankle. She eyed Hermione's and Brigitte's more revealing costumes with unconcealed disdain before leaving the room, banging the door behind her, leaving only two other girls besides Hermione and Brigitte.

"Chienne," Brigitte muttered after Marion's back, and Hermione burst out laughing. Brigitte gave her a sly look, one which she had never had the confidence to use before.

Marlene Smith walked by with one of her other friends, giving Hermione a hesitant smile, trying to apologize, Hermione knew, but she turned her back on her. Who needed friends like that?
Brigitte took a step back to gaze at Hermione further, happy with her handiwork. Hermione had assumed her hair would be a disaster, completely unable to be fixed in time, but Brigitte had worked some French magic in minutes, had told Hermione she could do this for her every day (Hermione had politely declined) and now her hair was not bushy, but soft curls, flowers and leaves and glitter interspersed throughout, a sparkling crown of flowers circling her head. She supposed her dress, her glittery fairy dress she had transfigured out of a particularly disgusting pair of bobby socks was a tad revealing in this time period, but she couldn't be bothered to care. If only Marion Hinsley could see what girls wore on Halloween in the nineties. She would have a stroke. Hermione looked down, running the glittery, pale cream material between her hands, her shoulders and upper chest bare except for glitter, swooping sleeves, cascading fabric, and fairy wings completing her look. She hadn't lied to Riddle about unfulfilled fairy fantasies. She had fought to be Tinker Bell eight years straight with her parents, since the age of two, and they had forced her to be feminist icons every time. Hermione had argued, since the age of six, that Tinker Bell was a feminist icon to no avail.

"What do you think, Brigitte?" she asked, "should I turn it blue? Or yellow? Lavender? Pink?"

"No pink," Brigitte said, wrinkling her nose, her own costume gold and white, showing much more chest than many English girls would. She had told Hermione that she had already prepared herself for the eyerolls and mutters of "French" behind her back, but she assumed the other few French refugees would get it. And also, she didn't care. Hermione had admired that greatly.

"Keep—keep crème," she said, "you look…um…" she gestured irritably, trying to convey a word Hermione could not guess. "Ange!" she said finally.

"An angel?" Hermione scoffed, "well, then I'm the least angelic angel in existence."

Brigitte giggled again, grabbing Hermione's arm with her own.

"Where did Evelyn get to?" Hermione asked as they made their way down the stairwell.

Brigitte's smile slipped for a moment, and she shrugged.

"I suppose we'll see her there," Hermione mused, "where are you meeting, um…um…" she tried desperately to remember the name of the Ravenclaw boy, the one who had given Hermione a flower, and no doubt had asked Brigitte as some weird service to Riddle.

"Frederick?" Brigitte supplied.

"Yes," Hermione said, relieved, as they walked into the common room, which was mostly cleared out. Wyatt Corsington, one of the last stragglers, looked at Hermione and Brigitte, and his eyes bugged out of his head, his mouth dropping. Hermione felt a sense of petty satisfaction as she sailed past him, ignoring him utterly. She adjusted her costume, and more of her collarbones showed. Another boy gasped loudly from behind them. Brigitte snickered.

"Down…downstairs," Brigitte told her, and Hermione felt relieved that she could walk with Brigitte for a long time. She needed the strength. She needed the willpower to face Riddle again. She had been possessed, kissing him like that, bossing him around, using tongue, for Merlin's sake, she doubted good nineteen forties girls did that, based on his reaction, but she had thought of her friends, and she had done it. But now her Gryffindor courage had currently fled the building, whimpering into a ball somewhere far away. Maybe she shouldn't have worn such a showy costume. Maybe she shouldn't be pushing him into mauling her again. Maybe she should run, and hide, go back to the nineties and—no. No. Harry was relying on her. They all were, even though they didn't know it. She straightend her shoulders, throwing back her hair, and pulled herself, temporarily at least, together.

Phobos Malfoy stood in the entryway to the Great Hall, along with at least twenty other boys who were waiting for their dates, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, bored out of his mind. He had been forced, by his social climbing mother, to invite Margo Greengrass, a pureblood Ravenclaw with the irritating habit of being an idiot. She was, of course, one of the last girls to arrive. Typical. Nearby, Riddle lounged against a pillar, looking annoyingly handsome as always, even with that ridiculous costume he was wearing. Arse. He had not helped, not one whit, with the phrase he had copied from Granger, even after promising to do so, and Igneus had mysteriously lost interest as well. At least Igneus had regained the ability to take a bath. That was something.

Hortense Lockhart had told him that no one in her family knew of any "Gilderoy" and he was left with nothing. Nothing, but the knowledge that he had had a hex cast on him that made him forget about this L.V. business. He had found that in the restricted section the night before. It explained the memory loss, the sweating, the way he had tried to change the subject when discussing it with Igneus. It didn't explain, however, who had done it to him.

He was pondering who L.V. was, for perhaps the millionth time, when he heard that stupid Ravenclaw, Frederick something or other, wheeze loudly next to him. He wasn't the only boy who did, and Phobos looked up at the stairs, and saw that quiet French girl in Gryffindor wearing a wildly sexy costume, her hair glistening, her breasts half out, and his mouth dropped as well. Next to her, was a very pretty girl he didn't recognize, wearing a revealing sparkly costume, and—wait. Was that—was that-Granger?

"What has she done with her hair?" Phobos said out loud, to no one, to every one.

He stared at Granger and the French girl, mesmerized, not the only boy who was, every mouth was open, every eye was glazed, every boy felt an unbearable surge of lust, but Phobos shook his head, like a wet dog, reminding himself that he was a pureblood, a pureblood, pull it together, pull it fucking together, and he saw Riddle, who had frozen against his pillar, his mouth slightly parted as he stared at Granger. Just at that moment, Margo Greengrass barreled past Granger and the French girl down the stairs, wearing a hideous garment that was meant to represent, he knew, Morgana, but merely made her look like a shapeless stalk of celery. He sighed. Sometimes it was hard being a pureblood, when all the good looking ones were crazy, and all the non-crazy ones were ugly. He had had a secret hope that he would marry Estelle Black, she was stuck up, sure, but beautiful, quite sane, and would make his mother explode with happiness, but now she was absolutely bonkers along with Audrey in the hospital wing. He had finally been allowed to see them, and he had no wish to repeat the experience.

Phobos grimaced as his vegetable looking date grabbed his arm, and Riddle, fucking Riddle, got to go over to Granger, fucking Half-bloods, too good looking, it was so horribly unfair. He couldn't even laugh at Riddle's taste anymore, now that he knew Granger had the potential to look like that. He cheered up, very, very slightly, when he saw his twin Dougal's date. Well, at least Margo hadn't insisted on wearing pink sequins and a tiara.

"Hermione," Riddle told her, as they walked into the Great Hall together, his eyes fixed on her, "you look…ravishing."

"Ravishing?" Hermione snickered, "this isn't a Harlequin romance novel, Rid—Tom."

"A what?" Riddle said blankly.

"Nevermind," Hermione said hastily, as jaws opened all around her, girls looking at her with more hatred than ever, Tarts swooning and crying left and right. "You look nice as well, Tom." It was true. He was wearing the least fairy like costume he could possibly wear, but he still looked handsome. "Needs some glitter though," Hermione murmured, looking at him critically.

Riddle jumped away from her, looking frantically to see if she had glitter in her hand. Hermione laughed.

"Don't scare me like that," he said to her, and as they passed Dumbledore, who gave them both a beady look, his smile became fixated, his Everyone's Favorite Humble Orphan smile.

"Want to dance?" Hermione said abruptly, "or candy first?"

For indeed, Dippet had procured such a wide array of candy it couldn't possibly be eaten by them all, and there were hundreds of teenagers here.

Riddle looked appalled. "I thought I told you only the insane boys dance, Hermione."

"Well, I dance," she informed him, "so I expect my date—"

"Hermione, may I have this dance?" Avery said to her, half bowing over her hand.

"I—what?" she said, startled, her eyes flying to Riddle, who simply raised his eyebrows at her.

"You don't mind Tom, do you?" Avery asked, looking worried.

"Not at all," Riddle said smoothly.

"But—what—I-" Hermione stuttered as Avery lead her away, into some ridiculous faux Victorian dance, and now she was being forced to touch multiple Death Eaters! It was too much.

"You look stunning, Hermione," Avery told her, as they half waltzed, Hermione following his lead, having no idea what she was doing. "As always."

"Um, thank you um," for a horrified second, she forgot his first name, and almost called him by his Death Eater son's first name, "Sergon."

Avery smiled at her, and she tried to smile back to the best of her ability, until his eyes darted down to her chest, almost against his will.

"You know, I think I would like some punch," she said abruptly, disentangling herself from him.

"Oh, but—" Avery tried to call after her.

Hermione walked through the crowd, dodged a Tart who attempted to trip her, and another who flung her punch through the air in her direction, and tried to spot Riddle. Where was he?

"Hermione, may I have this dance?" another boy said behind her, Parkinson, god, it was Parkinson! The ass who had tormented Hagrid! Pansy's grandfather! "I have never," he added when she hesitated, "seen such a stunning dress in my life."

"Um," she said, slowly backing away, "um, th—thank you, Logan, er, but—"

"Hermione!" another male said, and she was going to slap the next Death Eater who tried to touch her, damn Riddle, what was he playing at, making them—

"Oh hello Brock," she said, relieved. Brock had been one of the few who had believed she had nothing to do with the attack on Estelle and Audrey, and merely thought she was snogging Riddle. Which, she reminded herself, she actually now was.

"You look lovely!" he said, straightening his Merlin costume.

Logan Parkinson looked angry.

"Care to dance?" he asked, holding out a hand, "seems like Riddle doesn't mind."

"I'm not his property," Hermione said, very sharp, and Parkinson's eyebrows went up.

"Course not," Brock said, leading her in a significantly less formal dance style than Avery had.

But it seemed that Brock dancing with her was not part of Riddle's plan, and after a while, in which Nott and Mulcibur both attempted to cut in, Riddle himself appeared behind Brock, frowning.

"Hello Tom," she said nervously, "coming to dance, now?"

Brock released her good naturedly. "Thanks for letting me borrow her for a dance or two, Tom!"

"Or four," Riddle replied, curtly, grabbing Hermione's hands.

"That many?" Brock said, and then shrugged.

"Almost five," Riddle said, under his breath, dragging Hermione off.

"I thought only crazy boys danced," she said to him, as another Tart attempted to burn a hole in her dress with her wand. Riddle dodged her expertly.

"Well," he said, "it was either dance or watch you get pawed all night by a Hufflepuff."

"He was hardly pawing me!" Hermione said, amused, as Riddle led her into a simple, not very skilled dance.

"He was," Riddle frowned, "and that dress is quite revealing, Hermione, very revealing indeed."

"Do you need the fainting couch again, Tom?"

"You are a very scandalous girl," he told her, voice low, "very scandalous." And the look he gave her told Hermione that he was no longer referring to her dress, but the incident in the library. Why was she always snogging handsome Slytherins in libraries?

"You liked it," she shot back, and Riddle's hands closed more tightly on hers.

"I did not imply that," he told her, his gaze intense, "I just said you were scandalous." And he licked his lips, quickly, and Hermione was reminded that that tongue, that evil, Parselmouth speaking tongue, had been in her mouth. She shuddered, slightly.

"Cold?" Riddle asked her.

"Oh, no," she said, "I just—I hate this song."

"Thank Salazar," he said, dropping her hands and sounding so relieved that she laughed. "Let's go outside and look at what Dippet's done this year."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he puts up haunted houses, weird Muggle traditions, that sort of thing."

"Sounds fun," Hermione said, actually meaning it, as they wove through the crowd, to the doors.

"Tom!" screamed a Tart, "Dance with me, Tom!"

Riddle ignored her. Across the room, Phobos Malfoy watched them, eyes narrowed, and made an excuse to his date, temporarily leaving her behind. As Hermione and Riddle made their way outside, through a maze of hay bales, he followed, undetected.

Hermione laughed as yet another cheesy muggle decoration popped out in the hay maze as they walked by, and Riddle laughed too. They reached the end of the maze, and strolled over to the giant jack o'lanterns peppering the lawn. Without warning, Riddle ccast a swift look around, and seeing no one, dragged her behind a ten foot tall pumpkin, pushing her against the back of it.

She braced herself, expecting more snogging, preparing herself for the act she was going to have to put on.

"Your name isn't Hermione Granger, is it?" Riddle said to her instead, his voice cold, his hands holding her bare shoulders very tightly.

"What?" she said, panic-stricken. Riddle's grip tightened further.

"Your name," he said deliberately, "is not Hermione Granger. So who are you?"

"Of course my name is Hermione Granger!" she said, her heart racing, trying to break Riddle's grip. She couldn't reach her wand, because she had foolishly assumed she had tamed Riddle, that she wouldn't need it, and it was strapped near her ankle, too far away.

"Liar," Riddle said, his voice arctic.

"It is!"

"There are no birth records of a Hermione Granger, there is no Hermione Granger in the Hogwarts book, no record of a witch with that name born in our year, no record of a married couple named Granger that were killed by Hitler. None. I'll ask you again," he said, shaking her slightly, "who are you? It will be easier on you if you tell me the truth."

"But I am," Hermione said, voice shaking. How had Riddle found all this out, how? Why hadn't she come up with a better story, researched an actual girl whose identity she could have stolen. "I told you, I was home-schooled, I spent some time in France, that's probably why—"

"Liar!" Riddle hissed, his usually pretty eyes smoldering with rage, his hands causing her pain, "don't think you can fool me with your whore tricks! Be honest with me! Tell the truth!" he said commandingly.

"I am," she whispered, tears in her eyes, "Riddle, you're hurting me, you're hurting me—"

"Don't cry," he said savagely, "the way you look," and his eyes raked over her, hungry, angry, "won't distract me, your forward ways won't distract me, I won't let it—" he shook her harder.

"You're hurting me, stop! Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry, Hermione," he whispered, "I'm not."

She cried more freely, and he finally loosened his grip, his hands travelling down her bare shoulders, almost erotically.

"You are," she said, "and I don't know why! I didn't do anything, Tom!"

"You're a liar," he whispered even quieter, "but I don't care. I don't care that you lied about your past. I don't care that you lied about the kitchens. I don't care that you probably lied about your dead boyfriend."

His hands were very gentle now, very caressing, the hunger in his eyes outweighing the anger, "because, "he said so quietly Hermione could barely hear him, "I'm a liar too."

Hermione sucked in a breath, shocked, scared, not knowing what to do.

"What do you mean, Tom?" she said finally, trying to think of a way to get to her wand before he could pull his. He pressed her against the pumpkin, his knee sandwiching between her thighs, and she gasped again.

"I'm a liar," he whispered again, "you're a liar. But you can tell me the truth, Hermione. Tell me where you learned those spells. Tell me your real name. Tell me why you hated me at first. Tell me what you're really doing here. Tell me, and I'll tell you a secret."

"Tell me a secret first," Hermione whispered back.

"No," Riddle said, "first, you tell me how you know my name."

"I—what?" she gasped, "because-you-I mean, teachers say it? You told it to me? What on earth—"

"My real name," he hissed, the anger coming back, "my real name!"

And Hermione understood.

"Lord Voldemort," she whispered, and from behind a nearby tree, Phobos Malfoy tried not to fall over.

"Yes," he said, "yes. And what," he added, "does Gilderoy Lockhart Lord Voldemort mean?"

That parchment. That fucking note, and those stupid Malfoys, they had ruined it all. Why had she written it, why?

"It means-it means-"

"What?" Riddle snapped, "what?"

"I had a crush on Gilderoy Lockhart," she blurted out, "a boy in—in France. That's all it means. And I—I heard-Logan Parkinson say your real name." And maybe something of her true crush on Gilderoy Lockhart shined through, because Riddle dropped his hands, and now they caressed her sides through the flimsy material. She felt no guilt about throwing Parkinson under the proverbial Knight Bus.

"All right," he said softly, his hands moving more than she would like, "All right. Now I'll tell you something. I want you to join me."

"Join—join you?"

"My knights," he told her, his hands roaming, touching, leaving a burning feeling, a dirty feeling behind, his eyes roaming downward as well.

"What—what do you—"

"You would be my best," he said softly, "my favorite. I could teach you all kinds of magic. All kinds. And you could teach me," he looked in her eyes again, "your magic."

"O—okay," Hermione whispered, and Riddle leaned forward, and kissed her slowly, his tongue tracing the outside of her lip, Hermione opening her mouth, the kiss going on, and on, and on, Riddle's hands touching her places only Blaise had.

Finally he pulled back, and looked at her.

"And you'll tell me, the rest?" he said, "The rest of your lies?"

"Of—of course," she said, wide eyed, so terrified she was shivering, but it was cold, and Riddle was touching her inappropriate places, so maybe he would believe that was why-

Without warning, Riddle delved into her mind, and Hermione frantically fought him off, thought no, Blaise, no, Harry no no no—Riddle pulled out, breathing heavy, his mouth still thoroughly snogged.

"Liar," he whispered again, "liar." And before Hermione could reach to her ankle, his wand was out, his lips moving, and a hex hit her, a hex hit her full on, and after a few moments the light from his wand faded, and Hermione Granger forgot all about Lord Voldemort and Death Eaters. She blinked at Riddle, than blushed, at how they had just been mauling each other behind the pumpkins. Riddle smiled at her, slow, and she smiled back. What a nice boy he was. So handsome. So hard to resist. He leaned forward again, and kissed her on her neck, her collarbone, traveling lower, lower, and she moaned. Riddle laughed against her.

Behind his tree, Phobos Malfoy covered his mouth with his hand, shaking uncontrollably, fighting a scream, vomit in his mouth, and so many questions answered, so many, but so many more added, and he watched as Riddle groped the Granger girl, the Granger girl he had been cursing for months, and who now, he realized, was actually his closest ally, and she had just been Obliviated and hexed to forget that. Phobos realized that he was her only hope, and he staggered away, trying to make as little noise as possible, and vomited profusely into some bushes, sweat pouring off of him. Riddle was a monster. Granger was a Half-blood, she was annoying, she had bested him time and time again, but Granger—no one deserved what Riddle had just done to her. No one. And something of Igneus Malfoy's former sense of right and wrong filled Phobos Malfoy, and he staggered back into the Great Hall, toward the library, determined to figure out how to reverse the hex Riddle had just cast.