She ignores him the rest of the fall term.
Every morning he's leaning casual-as-you-please against the locker next to hers: arms folded, grande americano in one hand, hair impossibly conditioned. His blazer was probably brushed down by a butler before he left his eight million dollar mansion or whatever.
The spoiled fuck.
Pansy Parkinson and her fleet of bleached sycophants eye her from across the hall. The bitch lifts her over-tweezed brow and glances at Riddle. She cracks her gum pointedly over the sound of the banging locker doors and sends Hermoine a scornful frown.
Hermione returns the scowl with a flash of her teeth, but Tom's mirthful smirk sends her gaze down under the blunt fringe of her bangs. She studies her chucks until she reaches her locker, fiddles with her padlock and flings open the squeaky door.
"Hermione," he says, smooth as dark liquor.
There it is again.
The clench of her pussy at his voice. The flail of her pulse and the thud between her hips reminding her of her too-tight jeans, the round little swell beginning to push through every shirt except this baggy black sweater.
She won't look at him.
She can't.
If she raises her eyes, she'll meet that glint and the beguiling twist of his full lips.
She'll want his face close to hers like when his breath whisked against her neck. When he bit her mouth she creamed for him and he raked his teeth along her chin, plunging his hand into her summer shorts...
"Don't make me beg, Hermione."
She looks up.
The clanging lockers and gossipy chitter fade.
The face under his dark curls is mythic. He is ephemeral, ancient beauty. Masculine angles carved in a marble likeness of Dolos, the god of deception.
His lips part, eyes aching.
Every flit of his long, sooty lashes is calculated, she knows. Every seeking draw of his brow and curve of his mouth.
She shifts on her feet, right left, right left. She has to pee.
"We've got class, Riddle," she mumbles, reaching for her stacks of Hardy and Brontë.
If she's quick, she can slip into the bathroom before Flitwick gets to his desk.
"Tom," a wheedling voice interrupts.
Hermione swivels on her heel and Pansy is inches from Tom, fitting herself in intimate proximity to him.
"I'm having a party tonight. Won't you come?"
She's purring, nearly rubbing up on him. The cloak of Love Spell emanating from her designer cashmere begins to stick in Hermione's throat.
"I'm afraid I have plans," Tom says, the lopsided tilt of his smile sugaring over his rejection. It must be working on Pansy; she laps up every word.
"Of course," she gushes, "between captaining the debate and rowing teams you must be up to your neck in commitments!"
Her eyes trail hungrily over the virile slope of that neck fitted smartly in his collar and tie.
Hermione seizes her chance to disappear, but before she brisks down the hall to the women's room, she catches Tom's eye.
And for one moment, the veil drops.
Something ignites in his gaze.
Something like a predator. Something like a trap.
Her blood freezes.
But it's only a second, and his face softens.
Tender, like a father.
She hastens down the noisy hall before she can hear what he calls after her.
Her heart hammers deep in her belly.