Abraxas' surroundings were painted red in blotchy brushstrokes. Tom was here with him, in his mind. But it was far from normal. His head was splitting apart, and the pressure from Tom's overwhelming presence was so intense that he thought he'd burst.

All he could see was red. Red, like her lips.

His friend—his master was furious, like he'd never been before. But why? He needed to block him. He needed to protect his mind or all would be lost.

Against his will, Tom yanked her from the depths of his mind. He'd tucked her away because she was precious to him.

His secret desire.

One he had no time to fully process yet. "Abraxas...I was waiting for you," she had said in her low voice. Fuck, walls. Red, tall impenetrable walls. The air was thickening, and he couldn't breathe.

She looked so soft and mischievous. "...there are some other things that I would need to be taught," she'd said. She caressed the enticing swells of her breasts above her black lace neckline. With all his willpower, he had tried not to stare when he held her in his arms as they danced, but the view was too tempting. The walls were collapsing around him. Black, paralyzing tendrils strangled him as they dragged him into the dark —

At her swan-like throat, delicate fingers stroked the petals of the crimson red rose he had given her. He was on the brink…he was going completely mad —

She shook out her caramel waves and they spilled around her, framing her expressive, beautiful face. How could one be so innocent, yet so seductive? He yearned to sink his fingers into her soft hair and cradle her head against his chest. Resist. Resist. Harder.

"What do you think? Do you like it?" Her sweet voice cut through the suffocating dark. He couldn't help but stare at her when she was like this. He took in her pert, petite nose and the pretty flush across her elegant cheekbones. His miracle in the midst of all this —

Her lips, so red and plump, were made for burning long, languid kissing sessions. His eyes closed as his mouth descended upon hers. His yearning ached. Daggers pierced into his heart. Carved, dragged through, again and again. Was that his heart that was aching so vehemently? Or was it Tom's? No, no it had to be his.

His tongue in her warm, soft mouth. He'd never tasted anything so fucking erotic. Heat. Heat. Burning. He was being scorched from the inside. Tom…please, Tom! His mind was unraveling as a desire to possess seared through him —

All he knew was pleasure. These were moments she shared with him and only with him. He couldn't let anyone else see — not even Tom.

He fought to maintain his composure, but as he brought her soft, small hand to his aching hard shaft…how could pleasure hurt so much? Like sharp claws ripping away all that was beautiful…all that was sweet —

She was so shy and demure. Her inexperience enticed him and brought out a peculiar form of greed he didn't know he was capable of feeling. It had been so long since he had anyone pleasure him. No, Tom, please, please, don't.

He was so fucking hard for her — had been, for so very long. He'd fantasized about this. Exactly this. Those Firewhisky eyes, framed by long, sooty lashes, were impossible to deny. He couldn't stop kissing and tasting the easily bruised skin of her fragrant throat. Walls — why were his walls made of fucking paper —

She glanced up at him with a curious expression before returning her attention to stroking his covered cock. He reveled in her absolute focus on the task he had given her as she wrapped her slender fingers around him. Pain, pain, pain. He was leaking blood from his brain. Bleeding out through all his limbs. Tourniquet. Contain the pressure —

Her kiss-swollen lips were parted most invitingly, rose-stained instead of red ever since he kissed the charmed shade off her. It made his cock ache to sink into that pretty little mouth. How stunning she would be on her knees for him…she was his tourniquet. He was going to lose consciousness from the agony igniting every nerve in his body —

When those eyes glazed with lust and her pretty white teeth sank into her bruised lower lip, he nearly lost control. He needed to know if she was anywhere as affected as he was. He needed to feel her shatter around his tongue, and he'd make sure it happened over and over again when he worshiped her before he took his pleasure from her. So this was attrition. This unrelenting force until he cracked —

Pretty red lace filled his vision as her delicate taste spread across his tongue. He could hear screams. His throat was burning. Everything was on fire. An agonized, slow suffocation.

She was so young, so pliant, he could teach her exactly how to please him. He could show her everything.

Dark desire laced into his blood. He wanted to watch her…he needed to see her ravaged until he was satisfied. No…his walls were crumbling. He couldn't distinguish between his thoughts and Tom's anymore as they bled into each other. His mind was being dismantled. He must gather the broken shards lest he lose himself forever.

His fissured thoughts went straight to the dark wizard invading his mind. 'Please Tom. My lord, please, stop! Nothing more to salvage. My devotion is tied to you, irrevocably. If you ever fall, I will jump after you. Tom. I know…I know just how…inadequate I am. I spent my life wishing I was enough. That you'd see me. No one seemed to know or understand — no one, but you.'

Voldemort wrenched out of his mind with such force, Abraxas' soul trembled.

He only knew Tom was out of his head because his vision was no longer red. His brains were surely leaking out of his ears. Shaky fingers touched his wet cheeks. He realized his face was coated in tears and blood. The world was hazy, but at least it wasn't red anymore.

He was unstrung. He blinked up at Lord Voldemort.

Breath eluded him. But Tom Riddle had always left him breathless. Long fingers had encircled his throat. His vision blackened. At least it was no longer red.

He was going to pass out, and it would be fucking bliss.

The merciless choking hand around his throat loosened.

He fell forward — gasping, guttural, utterly raw. He attempted to draw air back into his lungs, but each inhale felt like a rusted sword pushing into his rib cage.

For as long as he had known Tom Riddle and for as long as he had longed for him — his friendship, his approval, his attention, he'd never seen such a look on his face before.

Tom appeared almost…vulnerable.

His expression held a flash of desolate hurt. Abraxas glimpsed a measure of uncertainty in those pale, sculpted features. Genuine emotion was rare for Tom. He had resigned himself to the idea that Tom was incapable of feeling long ago, but he had always hoped to bear witness to its existence one day, but not like this.

He looked up, blearily, into wide blue eyes that gleamed like stained-glass. They reminded him of the night sky, in stark contrast to his own. It ached to look at him. Tom's hand was still in his hair — he'd noticed. And at that moment, he looked almost boyish — like that slightly lost Tom Riddle from their carefree youth.

But then a deep red flashed in those dark eyes as his mouth twisted, face contorting. It was that fucking red that he had grown to loathe. Tom's soft expression had morphed into fury, burned out fast, and melted to a cold, dead emptiness.

"Lust distorted your judgment. You were being irrational," Tom said in a deceptively calm tone that resonated deep in his bones. "I expected more from you, Malfoy. You have greatly disappointed me tonight. Await your punishment. In the meantime, enjoy this brief respite. But attempt to escape, and you'll regret it." With a flick of his yew wand, Tom paralyzed him in his kneeling position.

Dread slowly arced up his spine.

Pain lanced and slammed through his temples, more than he had ever experienced in his life. Red-hot agony pierced through his eyes, and it wouldn't let up. He tried to move, but couldn't. He couldn't even groan in pain. Terror gripped his heart when he realized he was imprisoned in his own skin.

Tom had never punished him before. Not truly. Not like this. He always allowed him…more than the others. But something must have changed. This punishment was unavoidable.

He nearly lost consciousness, but he felt Tom's hand fist into the lapel of his jacket, reach inside, and tug something free from the hidden inner pocket — something pretty and red.

Voldemort then vanished out the door. He abandoned him, like a wreckage after a storm.

The only sound that remained was the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears and his pained, rasping breath.

This was the first time he had truly believed that Lord Voldemort was both worth saving and beyond saving. It was a strange dichotomy.

Shadows bled into his vision and swallowed up all light. He was rapidly descending into a living nightmare.

Abraxas had never experienced fear like this before.

He shouldn't have kept his wounds open like that. To be used against him so cruelly. Now he had no choice but to surrender to his demons.

Hermione ran.

She ran the moment Voldemort brought Abraxas to his knees. He'll be fine. She, however, had something under her skirts that would get her killed on the spot. When did she become so Slytherin?

She made her way to the main floo, but her heart sank when she saw the small crowd and a long line to the floo. Disillusionment charms really didn't work well in the light in front of a group of people.

Before she dropped the charm and revealed herself, she transfigured the color of her ball gown to red, and her hair to blond. She also conjured a plain black mask and magically attached it to her face before lining up with the rest of the guests. Even with her life on the line, she didn't want to cause a scene and cut to the front. She still had hope that he wouldn't discover her. Her gaze kept straying back to the hallway she had just left.

She hadn't even been in line for five minutes before Voldemort rounded the corner, his eyes scanning all the attendees. For a brief moment, she lowered her head, pretending to fiddle with her ball gown. He stalked past her, and disappeared into the crowd with the other guests. A few of them even tried to stop him for a chat, but he brushed them off politely.

But out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he had come to an abrupt halt. He slowly turned his head, and her breath hitched when his dark gaze locked on her.

There was no way he could have recognized her like this. But he was already making his way towards her. Would he dare do something to her here, in front of all these people?

Hermione was an unfortunate witness to his murder of two people. She didn't know if he was able to obliviate her properly, since he couldn't seem to enter her mind through Legilimency. If that mental block was related, then he would have to find a way to dispose of her.

If he viewed Abraxas' memory with Legilimency, he would also know that she was behaving suspiciously in his study. Worst of all, if he was aware that Abraxas had stored his precious Horcrux there, he would undoubtedly suspect her.

Voldemort would not hesitate to kill her and make it appear to be an accident.

What should she do?

Hide. Fight. Flee.

Adrenaline surged through her veins, and she quickly left the line, and began to weave in and out of the crowd. She chose to flee, apparently.

She looked towards the double door entrance to the manor, but people were blocking it, and she'd never get there in time. Instead, she dashed down the opposite corridor, hoping to find one of the back entrances into the garden.

Disillusioned once more, she cast a glance behind her. He was indeed giving chase, but still quite far away. He appeared unhurried and had opted not to run.

Where the bloody hell was the door to the rose garden? She couldn't concentrate while her mind was in escape mode.

Running in heeled boots wasn't easy either, but it wasn't unbearable. She raised her voluminous skirts, so she wouldn't trip over them. She turned a corner.

This sense of impending doom, of panic, was all too familiar to her.

She noticed an open door at the end of the hallway and silently Blinked into it. The moment she was inside, she shut the door quietly, locked, and warded it. Her hand fisted at her chest as she breathed heavily. She pressed her brow against the door, screwing her eyes shut.

Trapped in the darkness, she quickly sensed something was wrong.

Someone else was here.

Wand at the ready, she turned around.

Moonlight spilled into the room, and she could see the silhouette of a man seated in front of the window.

"You appear to be fleeing from a jealous lover," the man said.

He swept his wand around him. Immediately, candles lit up the room.

A wizard sat upright comfortably on a settee, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His wand was balanced between his fingers as he held up the bottom half of his white mask. His other hand raised a crystal glass of clear liquid to his exposed mouth.

He drained the liquid in the glass like water, licking the residue from his lips.

Before placing his drink on the table in front of him, he dropped his mask back over his jaw to conceal his face — a white horned mask.

She had danced with this wizard earlier in the evening.

Despite her silence, he continued, "I was in desperate need of a decent drink after tonight's events. I can't believe Malfoy keeps the good liquor here. It was well hidden, I'll admit."

He proceeded to pour himself another glass from the bottle.

"Are you also here for the rare liquor stash?" His voice sank to a deep rumble. "Or are you here for me?" Slowly dipping his chin, he appeared to scan her from head to toe. "I can be persuaded to assist you. I've some experience dueling jealous lovers."

He stood up and approached her with his drink in hand.

The door thumped, and the handle turned quietly. She shifted her gaze at it with trepidation. Her wards were being demolished systematically.

He had found her.

She could attempt an escape through the window. But a quick spell cast at the warded glass informed her it was not a viable exit at this time.

She started backing away from the door, towards the wizard she had an unpleasant dance with. She strode to him and grasped his upper arm — partly to console him, but mostly to console herself.

This was the end.

Would Voldemort attack her in front of a witness? It could get messy really quickly.

The wizard searched her face, taken aback by her sudden intensity as she tightly gripped his arm. He was probably taking in the wild, desperate look in her eyes, which reflected her complete panic.

She was positive she appeared to be a crazed witch.

But she was afraid. For herself. For the discovery of the Horcrux. For this unwitting innocent bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The stranger vanished his drink and placed a large, reassuring hand over her own. He turned to face the door, wand drawn, as if he understood she was being chased down by a very bad man.

She, on the other hand, directed the tip of her wand at his chest from an angle he couldn't see.

She had to stun this innocent bystander and stash him in a corner, so he wouldn't be forced to witness whatever came next. Voldemort was capable of ending lives without a second thought.

She shook her head softly as she glanced up at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get you involved in this," she sighed, her face solemn.

"Oh, it's you…" he began, bewildered. "Don't worry, I'll help you."

Stupe—

The door swung open before she could finish the incantation.

Voldemort stood in its entrance as still as a statue. It was unnatural. He took in the strangely intimate scene before him, eyes darting between the two of them.

His unblinking stare was fixed on the pair of hands clasped around a surprisingly well-muscled bicep.

Voldemort's face was carefully blank, but she could tell fury was brewing beneath the surface as his jaw tightened.

The man next to her straightened his posture, his hand dropping from hers.

Without looking away from her, Voldemort asked, "Have you completed your mission for tonight?" He blinked and turned his head to the man next to her, with an expectant look on his face.

Wait, what? White Horned Mask was a…

She snatched her hand away from his arm, as if it had been burned.

"Yes, it's done, my…" he paused and looked over at Hermione. He didn't say anything more as he turned back to Voldemort, slightly bowing his head.

"No witnesses?"

"None, sir. I was just having a drink after, when this witch barged in and disturbed my peace."

"Do you know who she is?" Voldemort asked with a curious lilt in his voice.

White Horned Mask looked at her again, his dark eyes roving over her simple black mask and loose blond waves. "Her magic feels similar to that of an unusual witch I met earlier tonight, but I've never met this one before."

"So you've met her. Did you dance with her?"

She could feel the intrigued curiosity emanating off the wizard beside her by this peculiar line of questioning.

"No, I…don't believe so," he said with false confidence, but seemed to waver at the end.

"You're done for the night. Go."

The man didn't need to be told twice. He shot her a parting glance, and she glared back. He was out the door before she could even exhale the breath she'd been holding.

She couldn't move more than two steps without bumping into a Death Eater tonight. This one moved quickly and stealthily. What was his mission tonight? She hoped the body count for tonight was no more than two.

Voldemort walked in and clicked the door shut with a finality that rattled her bones, despite how softly he had closed it. A storm looked ready to be unleashed and cut her to the bone as he watched her with impenetrable eyes.

"My, my…haven't you been a very busy girl tonight," he said quietly, completely devoid of emotion. "A rendezvous with yet another one of my men, hmm Hermione?"

"Don't be absurd. I was trying to escape you and found myself here since the door was conveniently open." Her gaze darted to the wall lined with a shocking variety of artistically presented liquor. "Have you noticed that your followers are all alcoholics? Even Rosier, I was quite surprised to learn. Doesn't it worry you that you've driven them all to drink?"

His mouth twitched slightly, but he ignored her question. "Why would you try to escape from me? Have you done something that made you feel guilty?" His inquisitive gaze scrutinized her every move.

Anxiety wreaked havoc within her; she knew that if he discovered the Horcrux beneath her skirts, she'd be dead.

"What could I possibly have to feel guilty about? You're the unapologetically cruel murderer here," she said, with more venom than she intended.

She knew it was never wise to deliberately challenge him. But was she supposed to act like she saw nothing?

But of course, he was aware she had seen him.

He looked ready to sacrifice her and flick her off his chessboard. But what he didn't realize was that they were on opposite sides in this perpetual game of chess.

And that she will never be his pawn.

It was that absolute calm etched into his features — the way he looked before ending a life, that had her on a defensive edge.

His fast darkening gaze sharpened. He brandished his wand above his head and snapped it in her direction. An unknown dark spell burst forth —

Hermione hastily cast one of her most powerful shields.

Red flames laced with crackling blue energy as his curse curled and danced against the surface of her magical blue shield.

A potent wave of flames flared around the shield and her body, not quite touching her, but she felt its unbearable heat beating against her exposed skin.

A sheen of sweat appeared over her temple and brow. Hot air breezed heavily against her chest as the skin there dampened with the scorching heat. Droplets trickled down her nape.

His mouth twisted as his wicked power surged malevolently.

Considerable magical pressure swelled around her as her arm began to tremble. Her knuckles had turned white from gripping her wand so tightly as she held on to her shield.

A dark scowl appeared on his face, and with a forceful thrust of his arm, he finally shattered her shield. It dissipated into the raging flames.

Fucking impossible. No one had ever broken that particular shielding spell by holding a single spell before. Normally, it took a barrage of incessant spells from multiple sources before it collapsed.

All this time, he'd been hiding the true extent of his power from her. He was likely capable of even more. A part of her was disappointed in herself for underestimating him. But he never treated her as his enemy — until now.

Never reveal to your enemy everything you are capable of. Well, unless you were about to die.

He wanted to kill her. The thought was emblazoned all over his features. But as soon as her shield disintegrated, he broke the spell. None of the crackling flames had managed to hurt her.

For several beats, there was complete silence.

With a sophisticated flourish of his wand, he appeared to be casting another potentially lethal spell.

Oh no, this was it. He was going to end her.

If not to silence her for what she witnessed— his senseless, grotesque murders, then for her possession of his Horcrux. She was still unsure whether he could sense its presence on her, or if he suspected why she was in Abraxas' study in the first place.

She just knew that he was far more perceptive and naturally suspicious than Abraxas.

A sharp twinge sparked down her spine as her power tingled, and the instinct to live charged forth.

She utilized one of the spells he had taught her that controlled the perception of time, and cast an Illusion of Haste on herself.

Her own movement appeared normal to her, and the only way she could tell that time had greatly sped up for her alone was that Voldemort's answering blink was noticeably sluggish. But he seemed to have caught on to what she'd done, because he raised his wand extremely slowly to raise a shield.

She fell back on what she knew, and was nearly certain Voldemort didn't know how to effectively block this spell because it hadn't been invented yet. She wanted the incantation to remain secret, so she prepared to cast nonverbally. All she needed was him weakened for a split second.

Sectumsempra. She viciously slashed her wand back and forth like it was a short sword, aimed at his chest, as his shield was dragged from his wand in slow motion.

But thanks to her time magic, he was too late.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second when he realized her spell was going to hit him, and that it wasn't a curse he could easily deflect. Perhaps his surprise was due to the audacity of her attack, which, unlike the first time they met, was justified; he had attacked her first.

Snape's dark curse struck, and the perception of time instantly returned to normal.

Voldemort's coat and shirt were ripped to shreds, and blood blossomed violently from his chest.

He reacted with a tight grunt, jaw locked tight as he gritted his teeth in a silent snarl. His hand flew to his chest as he focused his power on staunching the blood rapidly hemorrhaging from his wounded chest.

His harsh breathing was the only thing that suggested he may have been in pain.

He was distracted now. This was her opportunity. It would give her time to destroy his Horcruxes later, so he cannot return.

Avada Kedavra!

A powerful jet of green magic sprang forth from her wand and raced towards Voldemort.

With one hand at his chest, he rapidly spun his wand in a complex series of movements so fast, it was a complete blur.

A small, swirling violet ball of energy exploded forth in front of him.

The Singularity.

It took everything for her not to scream in fury as her lethal stream of green light vanished straight into the churning abyss.

She stared past the glow of shimmering violet light reflecting off Voldemort's face as he grimaced. Blood trickled down from a corner of his lips.

Even still, a slow quirk of his lips manifested into a satisfied smirk as he fastened his scorching gaze on her.

Voldemort had never looked more sinister to her.

He countered with another spell, but she was prepared for it, and threw her body off the side. Fortunately, she was able to maintain her balance on her feet.

She needed to cast her own Killing Curse-absorbing vortex, right about now. She knew how — thanks to Riddle's library in the Diadem Horcrux.

But she never got that chance.

With a brisk sweep of his hand, his vortex vanished and with a downward whip of his wand arm, he magically shoved her back onto the cushioned settee. Invisible cords quickly immobilized her legs and arms as she found herself magically bound to the furniture.

This again! Yet another binding spell she'd never seen before — one she couldn't easily break because the counterspell was a complete mystery to her.

Just how many rope and binding spells did this sick, twisted bastard know? There had to be a limit.

Magical tendrils appeared out of thin air to twist around her wrist and hand, slowly prying her stiff fingers free from around her wand. She gritted her teeth as pain lanced through it sharply and her wand fell.

With another flick of his wrist, her fallen wand flew into the evil wizard's grasp.

And she spent all that time learning how to effectively resist his near-unblockable disarming charm. It was all for naught.

If Voldemort wanted something accomplished, he had a plethora of exotic spells at his disposal to ensure that it was done.

Aside from their heavy breathing, the room was now peacefully quiet.

At least, she made him bleed — profusely. She'd tell her nonexistent grandchildren one day: 'I managed to make Lord Voldemort bleed!'

In any case, she was probably going to die now for attempted murder. All that precious Heir of Slytherin blood he prided himself on was now dripping to the floor. It was worth it for the satisfaction of that alone.

Even as blood continued to seep through his clothing, he nonchalantly walked over to the liquor cabinet. He opened one of the hidden doors, and removed, not alcohol, but several bottles of potions.

She watched him with unabashed bitterness at his ability to stay upright. He should be writhing on the floor, at the very least. Dying — preferably.

Did he not feel anything? Did he even have a heart beating beneath that cold exterior, the way her own was hammering against her rib cage right now?

What was this wizard's pain tolerance, if he scarcely reacted to his flesh torn open by the Sectumsempra curse as he bled out?

She couldn't help but stare as he deftly uncorked numerous blood-replenishing and healing potions with one hand, and downed them consecutively. She watched in resentful awe as his pale throat bobbed as he swallowed them all down rather methodically without wincing at the undoubtedly disgusting taste.

"Now that you're done with your little tantrum, would you like some Firewhisky?" His smooth, velvety tenor washed over her, but she could hear an unpolished raggedness in it.

Pardon? Now? What's with these Dark wizards and their booze? She scoffed loudly and turned her head away from him, softly shaking her head in disapproval as he proceeded to pour himself a rather generous glass of Firewhisky — almost to the brim.

Arsehole. He just received a potentially fatal wound, and he was now going to drink? Did he want to toast his survival and her inevitable death?

He stalked over to her like a lethal cat that found its prey to devour for the night.

He took a seat next to her, opposite the side of the leg with the Diary Horcrux strapped to it.

To say she was nervous would be an understatement. Her bound hands, resting atop her gown, fisted into the silky fabric. If he found the Horcrux, she'd be dead before she could even come up with an asinine reason for why she had it on her in the first place.

Her mind raced with plausible justifications anyway; Malfoy's hiding place was laughably poor, so she was doing him a massive favor by finding a better hiding place for him? She needed a blank diary to write in? She was madly infatuated with him and wanted to know more about him, so she stole his diary?

Fuck, they were all atrociously unbelievable reasons. She rather Avada herself than try to defend her actions.

Hermione tested the binds for a moment and realized they had loosened. She struggled as surreptitiously as possible as he quietly studied her while taking sips from his crystal tumbler.

After a period of time, she managed to wriggle free of the invisible cords, and he still hadn't reacted.

She flew to her feet and made to dash to the exit when large hands encircled her hips and yanked her back hard.

She gasped and landed in a sprawl in his lap. He was now so close, she lost her breath for a second. She could feel his warmth seeping through the thick layers of her skirts as an arm curled under her knees and rotated her, so she was partially facing him.

She was acutely aware of his other hand gripping her hip tightly, burning through the silk gown.

His large hand rose to her face, and his fingers gently removed her mask. With his eyes never leaving her face, he angrily flung the mask off to the side as he set it on fire. It disintegrated midair.

In the same breath, his hand reclaimed the levitating glass of Firewhisky beside him and brought it to his mouth.

She was unmasked by him, for a second time tonight.

The thick coppery tang of his blood mixed with his subtle warm scent permeated the air between them. She could taste it on her tongue.

He watched her, over the rim, as his throat moved. His expression was inscrutable.

"Blond hair doesn't suit you at all," he said finally. Her scalp tingled, and she could see the waves hanging over her shoulders had returned to her usual brown.

Spine rigid, she glared at him, defiant, but she could barely stand to look at him.

Up close, he was devastating — recklessly so.

He was like a beautiful and exotic serpent to be admired from afar, but if one got too close, they would be tempting death.

She wondered how the ugliness inside him didn't leak out and poison his looks. At least the bold slant of his eyebrows kept him from appearing too ethereal. No one would mistake him for anything but the devil.

Why was he forcing her to sit on his lap like this? Didn't he believe he was above physical touch? The last time she sat on anyone's lap was when she was a small child being held by her dad.

She shifted uncomfortably, trying to move off his thighs, but he squeezed her hip in warning.

Then she froze. She didn't dare move an inch. She didn't even want to breathe.

Tom Riddle's diary was now directly under his nose. Her gaze fell, and she was relieved that there wasn't a telltale rectangular outline under her thick skirts. But she was terrified that he could somehow sense a part of his torn soul so close to him.

Could he feel it? The way her heartbeat pulsed through her whole body.

What was fear?

Fear was not knowing one's fate. She had no idea how she was going to survive this ordeal.

A/N: I was really nervous posting this chapter, and will be for the next two as well. Is now a good time to tell you that there are actually four parts to Siren? This is a very, very long scene, and had to be broken up or I'd go crazy. Also, Voldemort disarming Hermione is just their love language at this point. :)

I promise the next update will not take as long!

Thank you so much for the reviews! They're encouraging and I really appreciate them. I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter!