You don't know about a girl,
I'll take over the world!
And I wanna party like whoa-oh-oohh.
You don't know about a girl,
The meaning of the word!
Cause we just wanna party like whoa-oh-oohh.
So we gon' sing it.
Whoa-oh. Hay-ay-ah-oh. Oh. Hay-eh-oh.

Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to JK Rowling and Warner Bros™. Song belongs to The Sugababes; About a Girl. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.

WARNING: Sexual Preferences


You would have thought regret, guilt, and anxiety would linger around in Tom Riddle's aura. That's what it would have been like for anyone else who just killed a person.

But, no. Tom Riddle wasn't like that. He didn't even give a seconds thought to what might happen if he was caught and proven guilty, or to going back and trying to help her. Because he was too clever and big headed for that.

He knew he wouldn't get caught. And he knew that the only way he would go back and help her, was if she stood up and dragged him there.

Which wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

He just swaggered to the Main Hall and up to the Slytherin table, casually and carefully as though he'd just woken up and hadn't stabbed anyone in the gut.

He took his usual seat at the table, beside Ryker, Jackson, Eileen and Roberta. No one seemed to be aware of the fact that Hermione wasn't there, and Tom liked it that way.

But even if they did ask, he had the perfect answer already pursed on his perfect lips.

They all greeted them, and he responded like he normally would. A smirk and a nod, before sneering down at his plate.

Usual, mindless conversation didn't interest him. He'd heard it all before. He didn't care for Quidditch, because he had many other important things to do than whiz around on a stupid stick. And why would he care about who Gurter Rouse was going out with now when she apparently liked someone else? Gurter Rouse looked like a turkey on legs.

Just as he thought his head was about to explode, he thought the pressure building up inside of him was getting to his brain. His eyes must have been deceiving him. Because Hermione Granger couldn't have just walked back into the Great Hall, a great big smile on her face, as though he hadn't just stabbed her at all.

Her robes weren't ripped, and no blood was visible. She seemed to be walking just fine. And her voice was not strained with pain. Her smile was taunting to him, and she knew it.

She took her seat opposite Eileen and beside Jackson.

"Hey, Hermione. Where were you? It's almost first lesson now."

Hermione shrugged innocently, and leant over the table to grab a piece of toast. "I overslept. That's all."

Tom was sure her eyes flittered over to him for a second. But it was such a brief movement, he couldn't have been sure.

It was only then when he realised she wasn't perfectly alright, after all. Her eyes had dark circles under them, and he was sure they hadn't been there earlier. Actually... Her whole socket looked black. Like she'd been punched in the eyes. And her jaw seemed to be clenched, and he was sure she winced once or twice. And, if he looked closely, he could see a little bit of maroon – or was it dark red? – covering the green Slytherin serpent.

"Err... Tom?"

Tom hadn't realised he was gripping his fork so tightly he'd bent it slightly until Ryker pointed it out. He carefully placed it onto the table, never taking his eyes from Hermione.

That girl was impossible.

Lessons ran just as normal that day. Tom continued to be spiteful towards Hermione, and she tried to be polite in a taunting kind of way. She grew more and more exhausted with every step, and Tom was racking his brains wondering what must have happened in that corridor.

Hermione had decided to stay up late at the Library that night to do some extra studying. Although she knew that she would be falling asleep on her way to the common room. It was mostly to avoid having to talk to Tom, and she didn't care if she was sat up until 2 o'clock in the morning in order to make that happen.

But it seemed as though that was about to happen whether she wanted it or not.

Not long after she'd begun reading about Herbology (tears pricking her eyes after realising some things Neville had told them about plants had been quoted from this book, and his voice replayed inside her head), there was a scuff of a chair behind her, and a whispered swear word.

She knew instantly what it was.

Before she even turned, she'd said, "Hello, Riddle." When she was facing him, she slammed her book shut and thumped it down onto the desk. Despite what had happened that afternoon, she felt surprisingly calm, and not at all frightened.

Tom was already stood from his seat, and smirking at her. That same smirk he'd gave her earlier that day. His right hand was poised in front of him, his elbow balancing on the curve of his thin waist. His left hand was rested on the top of the chair he'd just stood up on, and leant on it with crossed feet.

"Granger." He said, coldly.

Hermione crossed her legs and folded her arms. She still had not left her seat. She was afraid that if she did, her legs may buckle under pressure and exhaustion.

Tom stood up straight now, and stuffed both hands into his pockets. It was only then when Hermione noticed he wasn't wearing his cloak. He was only wearing his sweater-vest, shirt and trousers. But his sleeves were rolled up, bunched at his elbows. And his tie was hanging loose outside his jumper. It was... kind of sexy.

Wait... What?!

This was the future Voldemort she was talking about, here! Wow, she really did need some sleep.

"I suppose you'd like to talk about my manoeuvre today?" Hermione wanted to get to the point as soon as possible, no matter what it was. As long as she got to bed, that would be fine.

Tom nodded once, and his smirk lengthened out. She was sure a snicker would emerge from there soon.

"How, may I ask, were you able to get up and come to breakfast when I'd stabbed you in the gut and left you to bleed?"

The words had slipped from his mouth as though they were made of ice cream, and Hermione couldn't help but wince. She did not need those images in her brain before bed. She already had bad enough nightmares as it was. Not to mention, she was still a little embarrassed about vomiting in Potions that day.

Tom noticed her discomfort, and relaxed just a little. Smugness, and even pity, swelled his chest.

Hermione swallowed down that disgusting, hard, hairy lump growing in her throat before answering shakily. "I suspect you didn't check that dagger when you used it, Tom. That is a standard Muggle dagger, and it makes it easy to heal yourself after being wounded with one like that. If you'd taken time to check it, you could have bewitched it into a complex Wizarding dagger, and I would probably be dead."

The fringes of Tom's mind licked at the images slowly fading there. He pictured her lying there, covered in blood, with grey, lifeless eyes, her body twisted into an impossible position. A position so small he could have kicked her once and her whole body would have fallen apart at his feet. He also imaged her as a ghost; floating around forever with a dagger sticking out from her stomach.

This was his satisfaction. This was his pleasure.

Death excited him.

Especially hers.

And not even some prissy, stupid, stubborn, know-it-all like Granger could stop him from succeeding that. Because even Tom himself knew once he set his mind on something, more often than not, he was going to do it. Whatever it takes.

"Do you still have that dagger, Tom?" Hermione's small voice suddenly asked, casting off his train of thought. He nodded once, frustrated and a little confused as to why she wanted to know.

She smiled at him and stood up. "Do you have it on you now?"

He hesitated. If he gave it to her now, he couldn't succeed his mission until morning. But... if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to see how you bewitched it, or how it worked. He continued to uncertainly examine her expression, which was calm and patient, holding out her hand for him to give it to her. She saw right through him.

He reached into his back pocket and handed her it, carefully. She didn't even seem to be wary of taking it from him.

Once she had it, she continued to smile. Just a small smile, tugging ever so slightly at the corners of her full lips. Tom watched her cautiously, wondering what on Earth this small little Slytherin was going to do.

She poised herself, and placed her left hand out in front of her, palm upwards and fingers stretched out. She positioned the hand with the dagger just inches above it, and Tom understood.

His mind snapped into focus, and his brain swirled. His lower abdomen pulsed with stimulation, and his breathing rapidly increased.

'Do it, Granger!' He snapped mentally, 'Do it! Now!'

As though she could read his thoughts, she slowly brought the dagger down and sliced along the whole length of her palm. Tom hissed between his teeth, inhaling sharply, staring at the oozing wound Hermione had inflicted on herself. It was amazingly erotic.

She winced, but didn't take her eyes from Tom, who was gawking at her crimson hand. The smile was still tugging her mouth a little, and it was very amusing to watch Riddle act this way. Never had she seen him so fascinated in something.

She curled her bleeding hand into a fist and let Tom watch the blood drip to the floor. His eyes were wide with anticipation and Hermione felt almost sorry for him. She wasn't helping him any more than she was helping herself. If anything she was making her trip here twice as hard.

But she had to prove a point, and was set on doing so.

Her right hand dropped the dagger and it fell to the floor with a clink. Tom didn't even flinch or move his eyes from her left hand. That was all that existed to him at that moment.

She opened her palm up again and the blood was now covering her fingertips, coating every crease she had. Tom wanted to take her hand, and lick the blood from each finger. One by one. Slow torture for himself. To suck Hermione's fingers clean, before moving on to the actual wound itself. Deep and oozing. He'd slurp up the crimson liquid with his tongue and lavish himself in sin. He'd let the metallic fluid sit in his mouth. He would never swallow. He'd scrape at the edges with his teeth, bite, nip, nibble, gnaw...

Slow torture.

Oh, so slow.

Hermione took her wand from her robes, and traced the centre of the wound with the tip. She uttered inaudible spells, until the wound was mended and most of the blood was slurped up into the tip of her wand.

Tom let out a huge sigh he didn't know he'd been holding.

Hermione smiled again, and presented Tom her clean, fixed hand.

"It takes longer with bigger wounds, however. And – depending on where the wound is – more effort."

She bent down to pick up the dagger from her feet, and sat back down on the chair. She'd forgotten how exhausted she was. She examined the wooden handle, the delicate engravings and intricate craftsmanship. As Wizard as this dagger looked, it was almost certainly Muggle.

She lightly threw it back to Tom, who caught it absently by the handle.

She breathed a short laugh, to exhausted to put any effort into it. "Why not try for the Quidditch Team, Riddle?"

Tom snorted and stuffed the dagger back into his back pocket. "Play an idiotic game like that? You must be joking. I have better things to do than waste my time trying to get a stupid ball through a hoop." He leant back onto the chair he'd leaned on before, and folded his arms across his bony chest.

Hermione shrugged. "You don't have to be a Beater. You could be a Seaker."

Tom snorted louder. "Hardly. You wouldn't catch me chasing that silly little winged thing if my life depended on it."

Hermione frowned, confused and a little offended. Both her best friends played Quidditch, and almost all her best friend's family. But she didn't play it herself. She was terrified of flying.

"What have you got against Quidditch?" She heard her mouth ask without her brain's permission.

Tom shrugged now, looking away from her and out the window into the light rain and ravaging wind. "It's just a waste of time. They practically force me to get up to the stands to watch them."

Hermione smiled again. "I think you'd like Quidditch if you thought about it, Tom."

Tom looked directly straight back at her, his expression cold and his eyes narrowed. Hermione's smile did not falter. It was beginning to become annoying, no matter how beautiful it was to him, or how much he desired her blood on his hands.

"How would you know what I'd like or not?! Who are you to make accusations like that?! You barely know me, but you act like you know everything about everyone!"

Hermione didn't move, nor did her expression change.

When she didn't answer, Tom pressed on harder.

"And you walk around like you've been here a million times before! Where exactly do you come from?! If you won't answer the others then answer me!"

Hermione stood up, now. Quick as a flash, Tom didn't even see her move. The smile was gone, and she had her eyebrows knit. She was only a few feet from him now.

"Why should I answer you, Tom?" She asked, plainly, not a trace of anger or frustration in her voice. Just mainly curiosity and that damn patience. "After you stuck a dagger in my gut?"

Tom hissed again, as he remembered the way she'd sliced herself. The pulsing in his abdomen came back, unwelcomed and amazing.

She folded her arms, waiting for an answer.

He didn't actually have an answer, so he just snapped, "It's Riddle to you."

She smiled again, and unfolded her arms. "I thought so." She swiftly picked up her things in one fluid motion, and skipped towards him. She was still smiling when she kissed him gently on the cheek, and turned to skip out of the Library.

Tom stared after her, watching the strange little girl prance from his presence.

Not long after the echo of the door closing faded out, he reached up to touch the cheek on which she'd kissed him with the tips of his fingers.

He had a feeling, for as long as he lived, he would not forget that moment.

Tom followed her to the dungeons not shortly after, but she was already gone. Turned all the corners and passed the portrait. She was already in her Dormitory.

He would have liked to try again that night. To try again to kill her. But the boys aren't allowed in the girl's dormitory's. There was some sort of spell that triggered an alarm if you tried to get up their staircase.

He would have to go to bed and sleep on it, and do it in the morning, before breakfast. And this time, she would not come back.

He stayed up all that night, flipping through books and bits of parchment he'd gathered from the Library; trying to research on how to turn a Muggle dagger Wizard. It wasn't as complicated as Granger had made it sound in the Library. But she tends to do that when she speaks. Quickly and annunciated, making you confused.

But he finally did it. Five spells later and one counter-spell after getting one wrong, his dagger was ready. He'd tested it out on himself, and found it was very difficult to heal up. He had to try three attempts before the wound closed up. Then he had a mess on his bedcovers that he needed to cover up.

That morning, he got up one hour earlier than everyone else, and sat up waiting for Hermione in the common room. She was among the first girls to come down the staircase.

But when she sauntered down the staircase, looking just as beautiful as ever, smiling at him widely and greeted him with a cheerful, "Hey, Tom," for the sake of company, he found he couldn't bring himself to do it.

What was wrong with him? All it was, was one little twist in the right place, one little slice of a couple of arteries and she would be dead. It wasn't difficult. In fact, it was particularly easy. So why couldn't he do it?

His suddenly cold feet startled him, and he turned to dash back to his dorms.

But Hermione saw the flash of the dagger before he was able to stuff it into his robes, and fright washed over her.

Hadn't she tamed him last night? Showed him that it meant nothing to kill? What was different? What did she do to him to make him want to murder her? Even if this was future Voldemort, she knew he wasn't fully there yet. He still had something nice about him. That's why he looked so sickeningly sweet dumbstruck when she'd kissed him last night. Even if it was only on the cheek.

No... She could not allow this to happen.

To her, there were two different Toms. The Tom in her past, but his future. The Voldemort to come, who murdered everyone she'd cared for and slaughtered innocent people. But there was the other Tom. The sixteen year old Tom she knew now. The sweet, charismatic, handsome, sarcastic Tom that had blushed when she's brushed his cheek with her lips last night. He was her Tom. And some silly little obsession wasn't going to make him anything otherwise.

"Now, I notice, many of you hadn't mastered this potion yet, and you will need to practice it for your NEWTs. So, please try again, people. Instructions and ingredients on the board."

Potions again. Making Love Potion. Again.

This was probably Tom's worst subject. He was awful at Potions. Eileen was always the better in the whole class, even after Hermione had came into it.

She did exactly the same as before. Quickly and effortlessly, perfectly. Her potion smelt of nothing to him, of course. But she would sniff it every so often and he would see how pathetic this potion actually was.

He made his a little better now, copying Hermione, not lazily or sloppily splashing or stirring the wrong way. He was careful, and after a while his potion began to turn a soft shade of lilac like Hermione's.

Hermione suddenly sniffed up. "Wow, Riddle. That smells great." She beamed, shuffling closer to smell his potion again.

Tom shrugged. "I wouldn't know, would I?"

Hermione sighed. "I don't think you're trying, Tom. You have to want to smell it."

Tom snorted. "Why on Earth would I want to smell an odourless concoction?!"

"It's not odourless, Tom!" Hermione shouted, frustrated now. It actually made Tom feel a little better. He hated it when she was always so understanding. "It smells different to every person! And you WILL smell it. If you try..."

Hermione's voice trailed off in his ears as a sudden smell wafted slowly through his nostrils. It was a smell he'd only ever smelt once before in his life, and he was dumbstruck to realise the smell was coming from his potion.

For he could smell lemon.

N/A: Hey! So how's it so far? :) Are you enjoying it?? Please review to let me know! :D

I'm sorry about such a grotesque description of Hermione's bleeding and what Tom wanted to do to it, but I figured that's how Tom would feel about it.

And can you remember where the lemon was from? ;)

Love you all! 3

Kelly xxx