A/N: Hey ya'll! Just another excerpt! I hope you're all liking these!

This takes place some time around Chapter Six-Chapter Seven-ish

Enjoy!

There was something in the flush of her cheeks when she was angry.

Her eyes would flash-a warning for the approaching storm-before she slammed whichever book she was currently reading shut and tossed her hair over her shoulder, turning her fiercely condemning gaze upon whichever poor soul had so deemed it necessary to make her angry.

More often than not, as of recent, it had been Tom.

But there was just something so...so...invigorating about her when she blushed. Because it wasn't just her face; her ears would redden, and the pink tinge would spread from her forehead down to her round chin, down the slender line of her neck to her chest, and God knows where else. Something about seeing her all hot and bothered, because of something he had said, or he had did, was almost too much for him.

And Merlin, when she was angry.

Even when he were right, he'd never get around to it. She'd die before she'd admit someone else was right, and Merlin knows he'd tried, on countless occasions. There were a few times that Harry and Ron had left to go gather supplies or information, and had come back to see Hermione half a second away from hexing Tom into the next generation, and Tom half a second away from yanking her towards him and tangling his fingers in her absolutely insane hair and snogging the living daylights out of her.

Because, quite frankly, an angry Hermione was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

She didn't know it either, he could tell. Hermione was conceited about her intelligence-there was no doubt. But when it came to her appearance, she seemed not to realize the effect she had on people. Hermione was no Druella Rosier, with her tall, willowy frame and high cheekbones, but she was enchanting in such a way that Druella could never be. She had this sort of classic charm about her that Tom had never encounter, a subtle sort of beauty that could hit you at the strangest moments, like when she brushed the hair out of her face or wrinkled her nose when she smelled something rotten.

It was disturbing to him, how much she had grown on him in a matter of months. To go from never looking twice at a girl to being so absolutely fascinated by one that he knew virtually nothing about.

Except that she was brilliant.

And he appreciated it, more than he could realize. He had never understood how anyone could tolerated Walburga's vagueness; on the contrary, Tom couldn't stand to be around her for more than a few hours. He appreciated that he and Hermione could hold a decent conversation without any effort from either of them. It wasn't even matter of her being well-read; it was the fact that, unlike the girls of modern society, she could actually formulate her own opinions without the basis of someone else's help. She didn't even agree with half of his ideas of dark magic and things, but it didn't seem to bother her. The other girls would fall over themselves to agree with Tom; he could inform them that oxygen wasn't necessary for human survival and they would obsequiously agree. Hermione, however, didn't give two hoots whether or not he thought dark magic had its uses, she was firmly and resolutely against it.

Pity she was, too. She would've been a great-

He shook his head slowly, clearing these thoughts from his mind. A great what? Tom Riddle needed no one. On the contrary, she would simply be a hindrance to have around. She disagreed so ardently with his plans that he'd never get anything done, with or without her help.

But what if he could change her mind?

He doubted it, he truly did. Hermione wasn't one for fickleness, and he didn't see why this would change because of him, despite her obvious...reactions...to him.

He smirked. Hermione may have been intellectually advanced, but she was still a female. She shared her sex's physical fascination with, despite how hard she tried to hide it. He could see it in the way she lowered her eyes when they stood close to one another, or the way her heart beat quickened when he touched her; just the brush of his hand against hers was enough to send her spiraling out of control. Oh yes, Miss Macmillan was very attracted to him, and normally, he would've been itching to use this to his advantage, however...

It didn't seem right. Normally, this argument would have made him scoff, but treating Hermione like he treated the other females that he often used as pawns felt...wrong; almost like diminishing her value. He felt like toying with Hermione would be like exploiting a weapon, which he should keep safe and tucked away, for his use, and his use alone.

Not that Hermione would ever be open to being used. She had illustrated quite openly her disregard for him at the beginning of the year, and he knew that if he really wanted to be...intimate...with her, it would take a lot to gain her trust.

Not that he did. Because he didn't. Certainly not.

Still, it was hard to ignore the rise and fall of her chest when she was all flushed and shouting at him- he was a man, after all. It wasn't as though he was immune to sexual desire, as much as he'd love to claim to be. But it wasn't because he wanted her. He was simply physically deprived. He was traveling with two males, after all, and she was the only familiar female company-it was only natural that he feel some sort of...stirrings for her. Sure, she was appealing, but not irresistible. It would be only too easy to ignore his bothersome urges.

Far too easy, as a matter of fact.