Author's note: Guys, OBVIOUSLY stalking is wrong and immoral. Please never, ever do this or accept this type of behavior. This goes without saying. THIS IS A STORY. It is FANTASY. Just never, ever do this or misinterpret stalking to mean anything positive. It is illegal behavior.

Ok, carry on.

Tom follows her on her way to detention on Friday night.

He does not intend to do so, at least not originally. Yet when he sees her trudging deeper down into the dungeons to Slughorn's office, he cannot resist the dark corridors that swallow her into oblivion.

He pauses just before the turn into the potions classroom, leaning his head against the cool stone wall. He finally remembers to whisper the disillusionment spell he should have performed before he started this mad expedition. Unable to examine his own motives, he strains his ears to pick up on what she is saying. He can hear her low voice speaking unintelligibly until Slughorn's loud, grating voice answers.

"Detention! Or right, of course my dear! Come, come in, young lady! We will just have to get this over with. Tom tells me you were out after curfew? Of course, Headmaster Dippet had reviewed the rules with you when you first entered Hogwarts? We're very strict about that sort of thing here…"

His voice fades away as they pass through the door frame. Without much thinking, or any planning, Tom hurls himself down the hall and just barely squeezes through the slight opening before the door slams shut.

For a moment, Tom is stunned by his own recklessness. He could curse himself, but thankfully, his intrusion seems to go unnoticed. He edges toward the farthest wall basked in shadows, but he still feels intense anxiety. It creeps up his throat like a wave of nausea. He is sick with excitement.

She is standing by Slughorn's potions cabinet with her back turned to him. Slughorn is rummaging through the bottom shelves as he continues to speak mostly to himself. The girl rolls her waist length curls in her hands until she forms a chignon, and rams her wand through it to hold her hair in place. She listens politely, but grows tired of staring at Slughorn's massive backside and begins to scan the room. Tom holds his breath as her eyes pass over him, and imagines that her pupils pause for a moment when they reach him, but she continues turning her head in a disinterested manner.

She can't have seen him, Tom decides. His disillusionment charm is almost pure invisibility. He thinks he could even fool Headmaster Dippet with it. He can surely fool a seventeen-year-old girl.

Slughorn finally reappears with an ancient looking cauldron and equally disgusting looking sponge in his hands. He sets the cauldron down on the stone floor and casts an aguamenti to fill it with fresh cold water before waving his wand again to make it foam with soap. Iridescent bubbles begin to drift up from the cauldron in between them.

"Alright, so. Miss Birch. You are to scour the floors—without magic, mind you—for an hour until your detention is up. Here are your tools." He clumsily hands her the blackened sponge and some filthy rags, "I will be right in my office next door," he holds up a finger, wagging it in a teasing manner, "so no more misbehaving young lady. I expect the best behavior from my own house, you know!"

The girl bows her head shyly, as if repentant. "Yes, sir." She replies demurely.

"Well. Yes, yes, don't fret about it my dear. We all make mistakes sometimes!" Slughorn laughs awkwardly before turning his head to scan the room—definitely not pausing over Tom's invisible figure— "I'll leave you to it then! Knock if you need me."

Slughorn leaves. For a moment, the girl simply stares at his office door before crouching down to soak her rag in the soapy water, wringing it out until trickles of black liquid weave down her wrists. She puts the rag down to roll up her sleeves, carefully folding each one until her elbows are exposed. When that is done, she begins to scrub the floor half-heartedly on her hands and knees, her back to Tom. Her skirt rides up her legs in this position. Tom can see a sliver of creamy white skin between her long black socks and her rising skirt. It teases him. He feels a bead of sweat roll from the nape of his neck down his spine.

He feels uncomfortable and dirty. He also feels undeniably intrigued. He wants to see more of the legs she carefully covers. He wants to see her fingers bleed from the effort of scouring filthy floors. He wonders if her knees will bruise from leaning against rough stone. He wants to pull her wand roughly out of her bun and drag her up by the hair to meet his eye, so she knows exactly who is watching her.

So she knows she is being punished.

Tom feels hot. He wishes he had discarded his robes before he decided to follow her. Stalk her. Tom flushes at this realization. He is not a realstalker, he reasons. He has no intention of hurting her. At least, not with his own hand, not right now. He only wants to see her put in her rightful place. She is too presumptive with him. The other girls know they are not worthy of him. They do not approach him; they only admire from afar. But she is always trying to catch his eye. She is always speaking to him as if she knows him. As if they are already connected.

It gets under Tom's skin.

She pauses her scrubbing, and Tom is suddenly cut off from the view of her backside swaying back and forth as she straightens up on her knees. She fiddles with something around her neck for a moment, and Tom realizes she is unbuttoning her collar.

When she turns around, Tom sees why. She has unfastened more than just one button at her throat. He can see a thin line of skin travel from her defined collarbone to just a hint of breast when she leans over to wipe the floors. Tom's mouth is bone dry. When she splashes her sponge in the cauldron, he takes an opportunity to swallow several times in an effort to unstuck his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

There is an especially revolting stain in the center of the room. Tom thinks it must have been made about a century ago. She rocks back and forth in an effort to remove the plaque and crust from decades of ignorant students throwing the wrong ingredients into their potions at the wrong moment.

Every muscle in Tom's body is screaming in alarm. He has been completely still now for over a quarter of an hour. He begins to wonder who is being punished more. There is no way for him to escape. It would be too obvious, he tells himself. He firmly refuses to believe that there is a part of him that feels his pain is as enjoyable as her suffering.

He likes the way her body moves. Lithe like a kitten arching its back for a stretch. He wonders what she'd be like to duel with. He wonders how it would feel to defeat her.

He likes the way her skin peaks at him from in between the crisp folds of her white shirt. Tom wonders what it would feel like to run his finger down the line of her chest. He thinks the tip of his wand would fit perfectly into the hallow of her throat.

The minutes drudge on. Tom grits his teeth against the angry cramp that invades his right calf. His foot arches on its own accord, his toes curling in pain. The girl slowly makes her way toward him to clean his side of the room. He feels certain she won't be able to see him, but she will surely feel his invisible foot against the wall if she gets too close. Every sound seems to reverberate in the silent room. As the clock continues to tick, Tom begins to panic. There are only a few minutes left to the hour, but she seems to be working faster now, as if determined to complete the chore before her detention is over.

Tom is again cursing himself. His shirt is completely soaked with sweat under his robes. He feels like every muscle in his torso is wound tight with tension. He is a serpent coiled to pounce for much too long, unable to throw off that volatile energy in the hunt, instead stuck scrutinizing his prey.

As if in answer to his silent prayer, Slughorn's door swings open right before she reaches his shoe. She turns her head in surprise to the source of the noise, seemingly having forgotten Slughorn was there.

"Well, well. You did a stupendous job, my dear. The floor looks almost as it did a decade ago!" Slughorn beams at her. She straightens up, readjusting her clothes.

She smiles. "Thank you, sir. I want to say again how sorry I am for breaking the rules and costing house points."

She is the picture of politeness. Again, with a smile so dead she could be an inferius. Slughorn inflates like a pufferfish, and folds his hands over his protruding abdomen. "Well, I am sure I won't be seeing you again in this way, Miss Birch. I expect better things from you, my dear, especially after that fantastic essay on the frigus lorcas this week. Best mark in the class! Which is quite rare, you know, especially with our Tom around!"

She continues to smile, but Tom sees the light go out in her eyes when his name is mentioned.

He knows he is not imagining it.

Slughorn must have noticed it too, clueless bastard that he is.

"You mustn't be cross with Tom, dear. He has a job to do, and it wouldn't be fair if Head Boy made exceptions for his own house, now, would it?" he asks, tilting his head in question.

"Of course not, sir. I would never presume to think the Head Boy would display such blatant favoritism." She responds. Tom wishes he could get a full view of her face.

"Yes. Quite right. Quite right. Well off with you then. Good night, Miss Birch. Straight to the common room with you." Slughorn dismisses her.

"Good night, sir."

She turns to depart quickly. Tom's legs are achingly slow, and the door almost crashes into his face as she exits. He barely makes it through, and for a second, he panics that his robe is caught in the closed door.

She stands in the hallway, staring off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Tom is forced to stand awkwardly in front of the door and wait for her to leave. Her vacant eyes slowly come into focus, and turn to pin down an invisible Tom as if she can truly see him.

She speaks.

"I hope I put on a good show, Head Boy."

She smiles before twirling in place to walk briskly down the empty hall toward their common room. Tom is in utter disbelief. He feels as if she has poured ice water over his head. As if she has drowned him in it. He does not move until he hears her footsteps fade into total silence. He is still standing in the same place when his heart slowly sputters to a normal pace minutes later.

Tom is humiliated. He could not have been more embarrassed if she had caught him in the nude. She knew. She knew. The whole time, maybe. Tom's thoughts begin to bombard him in such a way that he can barely register them.

Did she see him following her to detention? Did she think he was a stalker? She didn't seem displeased when she confronted him. She said she hoped she put on a good show. Did that mean she knew he was there when she unbuttoned her shirt? Tom feels a different kind of heat creep up his neck. The type of heat that seems to broil from the pit of his abdomen and strangles the base of his spine. He wonders now what would have happened if he had gripped her hair like he wanted to. He wonders desperately what would have happened if he had touched her exposed thighs. If he had kissed her.

Her.

Hermione.