Of course the first course of the week was, as always, Potions. Hermione trudged there half-heartedly; what was she even doing repeating her seventh year at this point? She had abandoned her mission and fallen for the Dark Lord who was diligently avoiding her. Entering the room, Hermione couldn't bring herself to take her old seat next to Olive, so she sat in her new seat at Tom's table. Perhaps Tom could act like an adult.

That didn't happen, of course; Tom walked in with Mildred of all people and the two of them sat with Olive. Abraxas filtered in at the last minute and looked downright panicked as his eyes flicked back and forth between the two tables. Reluctantly, he slipped into the seat next to Hermione.

Hermione had expected to sit in silence, so she nearly jumped when Abraxas leaned over and whispered in her ear in an angry hiss, "Can you fix whatever is going on between you and Riddle?"

"I've tried," Hermione whispered back. "He won't listen to me."

"Figure out how to fix it," Abraxas said through gritted teeth.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but class had commenced and she was determined not to fade into the background. Before Slughorn had even finished asking a question, Hermione's hand was up in the air. She relished in Tom's reaction as she spoke; his head turned toward her ever so slightly before snapping back into place. If he thought she was going to let him forget about her, he had another thing coming.

Hermione answered most of the questions during Potions; Tom played it cool, refusing at first to escalate, but by their third class of the day, his hand was shooting up nearly instantaneously and the ferocity and details of his answers were increasing.

Their Charms professor loved the conflict, asking at one point later that week how Hermione would respond to Tom's earlier point. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I've forgotten what Mr. Riddle said." Whether it was the use of his last name or the feigned ignorance, Hermione could actually feel the dark magic to her right despite the fact that Lyra sat between them.

Tom bolted out of Charms, pushing past Hermione and her irritating friend. Hermione had been especially annoying. How dare she suggest that his words held so little importance to her. It was obvious to anyone how desperate she had been for his attention, but what was infuriating him the most was that it didn't stop him from giving it to her.

Tom had known, of course, that Hermione was intelligent; it was one of the traits that drew him to her. But he had underestimated the witch; she had matched him every step of the way now that she was no longer trying to hold back, and was instead pushing herself toward her potential. As Tom was mulling this over in the common room, Hermione came through and headed right for her bedroom, acting as though he wasn't there. Her behavior was childish but Tom reacted instinctually, blocking her path with a wandless charm that sparked her hand as she went to turn her doorknob. She tried again, only to have the same thing happen.

Tom could see Hermione's internal struggle as she stood by the door, silently attempting spells with her wand that he knew would be fruitless. Eventually, Hermione must have come to the same conclusion as she turned on her heel and put her hands on her hips, her bushy eyebrows knitted together over her always-expressive chocolate brown eyes that right now looked especially fiery. "What is the meaning of this, Riddle?" Hermione emphasized his last name, he was sure intentionally, but it didn't sound anything like it had coming off first-year Slytherins when he started Hogwarts who thought he was trash. Despite her anger, her tone only conveyed her regard for him. It was almost enough to melt him, to make him agree with her and hear her out, but the witch had burned him too many times; he knew the only foolproof way to discover the truth about Hermione was through Legilimency.

So instead of words, Tom pushed Hermione's hair behind her ear, stroking the soft skin just behind her earlobe, which he had come to learn was her weakness. She kept her angry expression plastered on, but he saw the slight shake of her left knee—a clear sign that the expression was fake. "Tom, what are you doing?"

"I was merely fixing your hair. It's a mess, Granger." He used her last name as well, although he could hardly muster up any hatred toward that. It was, after all, one of the only secrets he knew about her. A small smile ghosted on her flushed lips for a moment before she overcompensated with a frown that looked more like a pout. Tom chuckled in her ear before grazing his teeth along the top of her ear, down until he reached her earlobe and gave it a soft bite. "Tell me to stop, Granger."

"Tom…"

"It's Riddle, remember?" Hermione gave him an irritated look that was clearly not staged this time, which only egged him on more.

"Have you reconsidered our conversation earlier this week, Riddle?"

Tom lunged in for a kiss, just to tease her, he told himself. But as he felt her ragged breath blending with his own followed by the feeling of her small white teeth grazing against his lower lips while her fingers ran through his previously neat hair, he felt himself getting lost. And as much as he might want to have things continue in this vein, relinquishing control with Hermione had never ended well for him before.

Tom pushed her away roughly and undid the spell on her door. "I fixed your door."

"What?" Hermione looked flabbergasted.

"You were having a problem with your door. It's fixed now." With that, Tom went into his room, determined to keep his distance from Hermione Granger—at least for now.

"Dorea!" Dorea was hiding in her four poster, reading off the dim light of her wand and hoping to avoid conversation with her roommate, Rose Rosier. "Dorea!" The more energetic witch ripped open the silvery curtains to Dorea's bed.

"Hello, Rose," Dorea greeted her in an even tone.

"I've been calling your name."

"Apologies. I thought I might have heard something, but I'm so wrapped up in my book that I didn't discern what the shouting was about." Rose rolled her eyes and looked at Advanced Healing: Balms and Other Plant-Based Treatments with an incredulous expression.

"I thought you were planning on being a housewitch, Dorea."

"I find healing very interesting. Besides, it's always good to know for one's children or husband."

Rose looked unconvinced. "If something is wrong, you should call for a real Healer. I don't want to read about Charlus dying from your untested craft." Rose was laughing, but Dorea was having difficulty suppressing a scowl. Untested craft!; my craft is very much tested.

"You're probably right. Still, it's a fascinating read. You're welcome to borrow it."

"I think I'll pass."

"Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?"

"Someone wants to see you." Dorea could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Please don't be Riddle. Please don't be Riddle. She had just begun to hope that their first confrontation might be their last.

Dorea's mouth felt a bit dry as she responded. "Who would that be?"

"Who else?" Rose winked. "Abraxas." There were conflicting emotions at this pronouncement; joy, that a friendship forged since birth had remained intact and concern over what could have driven Abraxas to call on her.

"Thanks, Rose. I should probably go see him in that case."

"He's waiting for you by the portrait hole." Confused, Dorea shrugged and changed out of her lilac silk pajamas and into a sweater of the same color, paired with a plain black skirt. She was surprised to see the blond wizard standing perfectly upright, apparently unharmed. The last time they had spoken alone without him bleeding or bruised or her scared to death by Riddle was years ago, at his parents' funeral. She eyed him curiously, subconsciously checking for any sign of concealed unsteadiness or injury.

"I'm not hurt," Abraxas said, one pale eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead, his face slightly creased from a suppressed chuckle.

"Well you can't blame me for thinking you are. I've never received a social call from you."

"I wanted to apologize."

"For what? Mortifying me?" Now that her concern had melted away she found that she was rather vexed at him.

"Dorea…"

"No, don't 'Dorea' me."

"I didn't mean what I said. I know you and Charlus are very happy."

"Yes, we are," Dorea said in her trademark haughty tone.

"I wasn't upset with you."

"You made a good show of it."

Abraxas nodded and smiled slightly, crookedly. "I was frustrated because I feel I've brought you into this mess with Riddle, which I was trying to keep you out of in the first place. I should have never asked to you to help me with healing. I'm truly sorry about that, Dorea."

"What do you mean, in the first place?"

"Well, that's why I broke things off," Abraxas said tentatively, as though he were talking about something that he really shouldn't have.

"Oh," Dorea responded in a small voice. Then, briskly: "I'm glad we've made up. Call for me when you're hurt, won't you?"

"I'm going to try not to," Abraxas responded evenly.

Dorea softened momentarily. "If you really need me, I'm here."

"I know. I appreciate it."

She pulled him into a loose, awkward hug. "Take care, Abraxas." He nodded in response.

Dorea walked back to her room slowly, concentrating on her steps and trying to distance herself from the strange conversation she had just had.

Beyond the castle walls, there was a small plop as a young wizard landed in soft snow coating the ground of Hogsmeade. Luckily there was no one looking on, as Draco Malfoy had seemingly come out of nowhere. The grounds of the old village were pitch black as there was no moon and the time was just about five minutes after midnight.

Draco collected himself as he stood and brushed off the compacted snow from his salt-and-pepper cloak. Looking on toward the direction of the castle, he wished he could go to it right now. Unfortunately, the only secret passages him and Snape knew of did not yet exist, and he knew from spending a copious amount of time with Hermione that he certainly couldn't Apparate in. Luckily, he had the (current? future?) headmaster of Hogwarts helping him, so they were able to ascertain which weekends were Hogsmeade weekends, and according to old records, students would be pouring into this town only several hours from his arrival. He had Polyjuice in his cloak pocket; he was prepared.

Tomorrow, after months of planning and separation, he would be able to see Hermione, who had thought him dead all this time. Draco brushed away a little thought that whispered to him that Hermione might not be alive after nearly five months with the Dark Lord; he couldn't think that way. He just couldn't.

Draco slipped into The Three Broomsticks, thinking he would look less conspicuous if he rented a room rather than huddling up with a Warming Charm in a pile of snow. As he stepped into the pub that still had the smell of butterbeer, he saw that Madame Rosmerta was not yet the bartender- instead, there was a black-haired witch bartending. When she caught Draco's eye, she shouted, "Abraxas! What are you doing here? Tsk, tsk." Abraxas? That was his grandfather's name. Merlin, do we look that much alike, or has this witch had too much to drink?

"I missed you, of course," Draco replied, putting on his best winning smile.

"You will get everywhere with compliments," the witch replied, winking, and pouring a drink. "Firewhisky on the house. I'll be in back if you need anything."

Draco knew staying here tonight would raise too much suspicion, as he was a "student," so he would have to stay somewhere else for the night. More interesting, though, was the witch's reaction. Perhaps he wouldn't need Polyjuice Potion to masquerade as a student after all.