Hogwarts, 1943

Walburga was not pleased about her future. She had to find a wizard who was part of the Sacred 28 to marry, and the two around her age, James Avery and Felix Lestrange, wanted nothing to do with her. No loss, as she didn't want them either.

She was far from ugly—men often looked twice at her. However, two looks were usually all she got as they kept it moving, no doubt sensing the madness inside of her.

Yet despite her family's wealth and prominent reputation, everyone in Wizarding Britain knew the eldest daughter was mad. Two years ago, she had been held at St. Mungo's for the entire summer. What a dreadful summer that had been! Locked away in a bare room with an artificial window until some toad-faced Healer came in and declared her stable. What an utter disgrace, Irma and Pollux, her parents, had said. What an embarrassment to the Noble Black family name.

Despite their anger, the ordeal, as dreadful as it had been, had a substantial upside. The label of "mad" had lowered her parents' expectations of her. They knew she would never be perfect again, so they turned their attention to Alphard and Cygnus.

Unfortunately, Walburga was still expected to marry soon after finishing Hogwarts. Who would want a 20-year-old bride? Irma had asked. Her daughter did not much care what her future husband would want. A virgin, that was well-known. Walburga was a virgin, but she planned on changing that during her last year of Hogwarts. If she was going to further disgrace herself, the least she could do was choose a respectable pureblood bloke.

However, she didn't want any of them. She wanted a bloke, yes, but he was a half-blood and in the year below her. It did not make sense. Then again, nothing about Tom Riddle made sense. For example, why he was sorted into Slytherin.

Cygnus claimed that Riddle was directly descended from Salazar Slytherin through the Gaunt line. The Gaunts were in The Pureblood Directory, but who the hell was Riddle? A muggle name if Walburga had ever heard one. She thought the story was bollocks, but Orion and Cygnus ate it up. Even Abraxas Malfoy followed Riddle around like a dog. It did not make sense.

Until this year, Walburga had loathed him. She did still, in fact, but desire is a goddamn strong agent. For her it had turned Poxy Orphan Tommy—clever name by James Avery—into this tall, dark, handsome wizard. The power he had over the others…Walburga salivated over it. All of her erotic dreams featured him.

It didn't make sense. She knew that with patience, she could conjure a carefully-crafted plan, except patience was never really Walburga's forte.

Riddle spent the majority of his time in the library. He, like her, was not very social, though he, unlike her, was always polite. When she finally drew up her back and approached him, he greeted her properly and coldly.

"Good evening, Walburga," he said, not bothering to look up at the table. He hadn't retrieved any books, she noticed; he seemed to be reviewing his own notes. "Has Cygnus or Orion asked you to find me?"

Under normal circumstances, Walburga would have snapped a reply such as, "They do not ask me for such menial tasks." For this evening's purpose, that wouldn't help, so she held her tongue, a rare feat for the sharp-mouthed girl.

"No," she said quietly.

That got Riddle's attention. Their eyes met as he looked up at her questioningly. Both of their eyes were brown, but his were nearly black, while hers were closer to honey-colored.

"I…would like to speak with you about something," she said slowly, trying to keep her nerve. "If that's alright with you?"

It was rather amusing to see his confusion, as he was doubtlessly accustomed to her snide comments and looks of disgust. It only lasted a second—his face returned to blank as he replied, "Yes, it's alright."

When he stood, she turned and found a dark, dusty aisle close to the Restricted Section. Riddle rolled up his parchments as he walked.

"Listen, Riddle…erm, Tom," she said quickly. "I need a favor of sorts. For lack of a better term."

He simply stood, watching her with polite interest.

"Not a favor such as writing my Charms essay, no. More like a…" Sexual favor, she finished in her head but did not dare speak out loud. Only a lowly, classless muggle slag would proposition a bloke in such a manner, certainly not a Black heiress. Yet here she was, ready to toss all moral standing to the wind.

Riddle, to his credit, interpreted her pause correctly. He raised his dark eyebrows and seemed to be holding back a smirk. "Are you asking me to take you to bed, Walburga?"

Despite the tingle on her cheeks, a burning image raced through her mind: taking his face into her hands, bringing her mouth to his as his hands gripped her rear, rocking herself on his lap, rubbing against the erection under his trousers…

As if he could see the image as well, the polite look cleared from Riddle's face, replaced with slight amusement. "Well, isn't this a surprise. Why would the Lady Black desire a 'filthy half-blood orphan'? Your words, Walburga."

"Listen, I didn't mean that," she blurted, trying to keep out the high-pitched whine her voice tended to take when something didn't go her way. "Your blood status…matters not in this case."

"Well, thank you, Walburga, that's very flattering," he replied mockingly. "Unfortunately, I will have to pass up your offer."

Anger flooded her veins at his condescending rejection. "You dare refuse me, one of the most coveted pureblood witches at Hogwarts? Who else of such noble stock would offer herself to you? Who do you think you are, Riddle, some kind of god?"

Riddle chuckled snidely. "Not too far off, my dear. Now if you'll please excuse me, I've got to work on my essay."

He was lying—that piece of parchment was not an essay. However, that hardly mattered, as the sting of rejection had consumed Walburga's mind. How dare that half-blood deny her! Clouded by rage, she reached out and snatched his arm as he turned away.

"I'll tell my brother and cousin you're not worth their time," she hissed. "I'll remind him who you really are."

"Be my guest," he responded, shrugging casually. "Although I doubt it would have any effect, considering everyone knows who you really are."

Walburga had to admit that she was rendered speechless by a 16-year-old boy who had never shown any type of scathing toward anyone, not even Avery and Lestrange when they had bullied him in years past. He took advantage of her silence, adding, "Goodnight, Walburga," as he pulled his arm out of her grip.

"You bas—"

"Oh, and sweet dreams," Riddle told her, turning back and smirking knowingly.

Walburga's face flushed scarlet; he couldn't have known about her dreams, could he? All those nights she fantasized with her bed hangings drawn and her breaths coming out in rapid puffs. All about him touching her, kissing her, taking her… How badly she wanted him, even as he threw her a look of satisfaction, further driving into the wound of humiliation, as he disappeared down the next aisle.

That half-blood bastard. How could he refuse the gift of a night with Walburga Black? No other respectable witch would consider him, regardless of how attractive he was. He was thoroughly unappreciative of her sacrifice. She hated Tom Riddle.

And yet, Walburga's desire for him was as strong as ever. No, it did not make sense.

AN: For some backstory on this and the upcoming chapters, read "Recipe for Disaster."