"Harry, honey. Honey, harry, I love you."

Harry groaned good-naturedly as he slowly turned himself over on Ginny's little cot. Blearily, he blinked a few times to clear the scuttling lights from his vision. She was sitting motionless on the bed's edge with her back to him. Smiling a little, he murmured a sleepy "what's up, Ginny?" to her back.

"I can't believe you did that. Ginny's mad, you know?" She spoke tonelessly.

"Ginny, mad?" He held his jaw to keep from chuckling and put a note of sympathy into his voice. "Why are you mad?"

She did not deign to reply.

Harry tried another route. "Ginny, Ginny, what's bothering you? Please tell me what's wrong, honey, so that I can fix it." At her silence, he continued. "Work with me here, girl, can't you see how much this is hurting me? Hurting us-" "

She whirled around, glistening tears down her cheeks. "I'm not Ginny. I'm Hannah."

He paused, trying to think of something to say. He hated Hannah.

"Ginny loves you, you know. And all you do is fool around with these other girls." She took a deep, shaky breath. "I hope you're ashamed, you-you lecherous, vile..."

Ginny had quite the vocabulary, Harry realized.

"Hannah," he interrupted, "I know it's difficult for you, as a part of Ginny's personality, to live like this, but please understand that Ginny and I have had multiple conversations about this issue. She knows the ramifications and so do I." Even though understanding anything would probably be difficult for you, too, he was tempted to add.

His professionalism seemed to calm the other down. He inwardly sighed of relief. "Do you want me to talk to Hermione about increasing your medication?" Harry asked, picking up his clipboard.

"Hermione?"

"You know," Harry waved his clipboard casually, "nanotechnologies? Very smart, uses big words?" Seeing her uncomprehending face, he faltered a bit. "Bushy hair?" he tried.

"Mudblood?" she muttered.

"What?"

"Leave." she muttered again, and when Harry just stood there, flabbergasted, she turned to him with a snarl. "Leave, you dirty, worthless halfblood!"

He ran out of there to the sound of ringing laughter.

Ginny, mad?

Harry couldn't help but let out his chuckle. They were all mad here.

...

Hermione was still a little bit jumpy from what had transpired yesterday. She had finished booking her flight-seventeen different flights to be exact, to all different locations, and sold all but one, so that they wouldn't be able to track her so easily. She had also cleaned her old blonde wig-a remnant of innocent, earlier times-and an old baggy sweater that she had never worn to work.

In a place such as this, no amount of paranoia could be considered too much.

She finished reviewing the research paper and jotted down some notes on a blank sheet. Scrawling "important! morph. autogene engine set v14" at the top, Hermione checked the time again. It was 3:34.

Great. Two more hours. She fumbled around her bag for another Ativan. She took them with a few quick gulps of cool water and relaxed a bit. All her reports to Dumbledore were done, and she had received an affirmative reply from the investigative journalist this morning. Life was good.

Maybe.

She peered around her laptop at Mr. Riddle, her coworker. She hadn't ever learned much about him from him, other than that he was DG General Hospital's best researcher (cough), that he never smiled, and that he hated being called by his first name.

A quick google search after their first meeting had shown her that he was internationally renowned, had close friends in the government, and had a deceased wife and no children. It was so sad that his wife had died when she was just out of graduate school.

She been forced to make many assumptions about him because he talked to her so little and so impersonally. Hermione thought that he was intelligent, diligent and hardworking, and she also assumed that he was close friends with Dumbledore since they spent so much time together in Dumbledore's office.

She also knew that he knew about Harry's...relationship...with Ms. Weasley.

A guilty feeling encompassed her and she turned back towards her screen to work. But her eyes hurt from the blue glare, and her nerves were frayed from nightmares and harrowing shame.

Maybe she should visit him. The poor kid who had been the cause of all this.

...

Tom Marvolo Riddle felt eyes watching him as he worked. It was the ever-curious Hermione Granger. She had some kind of personal tragedy yesterday, and that had kept her up all night, judging by the circles under her eyes.

He wasn't sure what merited this type of panic from his normally poised coworker, but it was fun to see her so frazzled. Signing his papers with a flourish of his practiced hand, he scooped up his pile of documents and picked up his suitcase. He refused to wear something as juvenile and careless as a backpack.

With a cool sneer at Granger's surprise, he walked to the old coot's section of the building. He hated the old coot.

Passing into Doctor Potter's realm of their corporate world, he gazed indifferently at the walls upon walls of closed doors. Doors to the mentally handicapped, the pretending to be mentally handicapped, and the experiments.

He enjoyed watching the experiments. It made his pulse race and his heart flutter with something akin to love.

"Mr. Riddl-Mr. Riddle."

Mood souring, he turned a careless eye at her, some nurse with a "Myrtle" nametag. She had streaks of blond in her light brown hair, and she squinted at him with dull green eyes. Her face had a peculiarly pinched expression, as if it wanted to make one expression while her brain told her to make another. When she smiled, her lips looked like two sausages, smooth and unnaturally extended.

"Hello, Myrtle. How are you?"

"Oooh," she gushed, and Tom's eyes flashed in annoyance. "Dumbledo-Dumbledore said he wanted me to tell you that he wants to talk to you immediately. In his room. And paperwork! Something about paperwork?"

"I appreciate your help, as always, Myrtle." He smiled and left quickly, feeling like he'd been tainted by her presence. Myrtle watched his every step.

"I-I think-I think he likes me." Myrtle moaned in rapture as she watched him leave. "Cedric!" She opened the door to room 189 and in a half-crazed whisper, said "I think he really does like me!"

Cedric smiled sadly from his bed. His body was paralyzed after a concussion from a car crash. "I'm sure he does. But you should follow your heart, Myrtle, not your eyes."

She wagged a painted finger at him. "I do love him, you'll see. I promise you that I'll be happy for you, okay? Now let's get you checked."

Writing Tom is so incredibly difficult. *dies*

The reporters' name will be revealed next chapter. I'm pretty sure most of you can guess who they will be. The story will deviate from outlast, obviously, but the idea will be the same.

FairlyJane-Me too! I can't play it though because there's just way too much adrenaline. Hope you enjoy the story!