Tom twirls his quill, weaving it in and out of his fingers while staring out of the frosty classroom window. The slow September-yellow haze is taking over the Hogwarts grounds below. The forbidden forest remains a dark green smudge on the horizon—a deeply magical parcel of land that refuses to do the bidding of the changing seasons.

They are working on translations today in Ancient Runes. Tom is seated next to Malfoy who is constantly whispering questions. Tom is being forbearing, although he feels ready to rip his hair out. The only reason Malfoy is in this class is because his grandfather is on the board of governors. It is too bad his grandfather couldn't also buy him a brain.

Tom leans over to scratch out Malfoy's last translation. He has written, 'The man eats a fish.' Tom corrects it to, 'The wizard must fish out the truth.'

Malfoy grins apologetically before bending over his work again.

Tom finishes early. He forces himself to look forward, but cannot help but surreptitiously peak out of the corner of his eye at Hermione Birch. She sits several seats away from him, her brown curly hair thrown over her shoulder so he cannot see her face.

Tom is doing his best to act normal. He reasons with himself that she was simply surmising that he was there, watching her in detention. Even if she had made out a faint glimmer in his disillusionment, it is impossible for her to be certain it was him. It could have been anyone. She didn't actually know.

That doesn't mean he hadn't lost sleep over it.

Tom admits her list of suspects must be distressingly short. Who else would have been in the room, practically panting at the sight of her clavicle? Tom ducks his head in disgrace, scolding himself once more for being absolutely pathetic lately.

Tom is a Slytherin. He is perhaps the purest Slytherin Hogwarts has seen in a millennium. He has done things, unspeakable things, things that would make her shiver, things that would make her squirm...

Hermione.

Feelings of sick, twisted shame envelope his chest at the thought of her name. He feels heavy, as if his fluttering heart is struggling to pump molasses through his arteries and veins.

His decides once more that his attraction to her must end. He is above such low attempts at seduction. He, who has prided himself in avoiding distractions. He, who has always sneered at older boys' descriptions of stolen sexual moments in abandoned corridors, behind dusty curtains, in broom cupboards—

Tom inhales deeply in order to clear his head. He must remain highly logical. Compartmentalized. He cannot afford mistakes. He has plans, goals, ambitions. Things that cannot be postponed over a girl.

Tom is not used to dealing with such emotions. His legal tender is logic, not feelings. He decides to renew his vigorous dislike of her by listing her faults on a spare parchment. He starts by carefully writing his name in the corner, followed by the date.

He begins:

Too thin (scrawny)

I like straight hair

uglyfreckles

she smiles too much

eyes are too large

prudish

why are her skirts so long?

she has a strange name

The Birchs of France are hardly respectable - reputedly mix with muggles

vindictive

seductress

As Tom is scribbling his thoughts, his parchment is suddenly snatched from beneath his pressed quill, leaving a long thin black mark on the page. Tom looks up in horror to see the list in the hands of the very witch in question.

She glances down at his paper, smirking as her eyes quickly scan his attacks. Tom is frozen for only a moment before he lunges to try to snatch it back. She has the advantage of being prepared for the attempt, in addition to standing over him, and easily moves the incriminating evidence out of his reach. His sudden movement causes the chair to scrape against the floor, earning them some wary looks from classmates who are still trying to finish their translations.

Tom unwillingly settles back in his seat, glaring at her, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears. He's meant to be avoiding her, but he's given her the most powerful weapon—a confirmation of his embarrassing infatuation, his growing obsession, his—

She smiles.

She puts her hand behind her back to keep the note away from him and leans over his desk to whisper, "My mother was a muggle, you know."

"Congratulations." He snaps. He curses himself when his eyes drift to her lips on their own accord. Her smile widens.

She has the slightest twinkle in her eye. It reminds Tom of the way she looked at Mulciber after she attacked him in Transfigurations. As if this is his only warning. As if to promise he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of her full wrath.

Tom thinks she doesn't know how badly he wants to see what that would look like.

She straightens and folds the note neatly into her skirt pocket and winks before sashaying to the front of the class to hand her translations in.

Tom watches her leave with a mix of absolute adoration and a determined desire to ruin her.

xxxxxx

In potions, she partners with Ignatius Prewett, a pureblood Gryffindor known for his Grindelwald sympathies, before Tom can claim the chair next to her. He is forced to settle for the seat directly behind her, and partners with Lucretia Black. She seems just as upset by the arrangement as Tom is, but Tom does not have time to wonder why.

He schemes for a way to get the list back. Tom has not allowed her to leave his sight since Ancient Runes this morning, so the parchment must still be on her person. Tom is furious at her, furious at his own idiocy, writing his name on the damn thing.

He is becoming disorganized. He is out of control.

She glances back at him as she speaks with Prewett, the corners of her lips turning up slightly when she catches his eye. She is playing with him.

Tom hates her. He hates her and her filthy muggle mother. Why would she tell him such a thing? She must know that it would be social suicide in Slytherin house. She may have grown up in France—if she even is from France—but her English accent is perfect. Posh, even. There is no way her parents weren't British. There is no way she does not know how things are interpreted in polite Wizarding society.

Even Tom, who grew up in that revolting orphanage, knows never to share information about the less appealing parts of his family tree. What is her motive? Of all the things on that wretched list, why hone in on this specific piece?

An unbidden thought wheedles its way into his conscious mind, but he immediately dismisses it as frankly impossible.

He can't think about his father right now. The gaping chasm in his chest will tear open, threatening to consume him again. He was foolish, so foolish, when he thought his father would accept him. Would rejoice in having a son like him, so handsome and brilliant like himself. The cruel slap of rejection had smarted his eye until he did not know what he was doing. His only remaining paternal family were dead before he could wipe away the tears clouding his vision.

He must calm himself. He does not want to remember his bloodlust. Tom knows what happens when he lets the darkness inside him reign. He cannot kill again. It is painful—much, much too painful. Much worse than any book can possibly explain.

Tom almost shakes his head to clear it. He is too agitated to think clearly. He must focus on the task at hand. But still, the question bothers him: What does she know? Tom crushes beetle legs as Lucretia Black stirs their potion. He eyes the back of Hermione's head furtively before deciding the risk is worth it. Tom is already a master, having a natural talent for it despite being completely self-taught. He knows how to enter unnoticed. He had always been good at stealing.

If only he could catch her eye.

But she seems to be looking at everywhere but at him. Be patient, Tom scolds himself. He stares at the back of her head, willing for her to turn around, to see him.

Finally, she does. It is the slightest glance, a mere peak out of the corner of her eye.

It is enough.

He is inside. Her mind is a smooth endless lake under a pink purple sky. Serene. Tom doesn't move. The emptiness of her mind perturbs him. Shallow water gently laps at his feet, kissing his toes in a luxurious way.

Two words float on the lake, too far for Tom to reach, but close enough to read.

Beetle legs.

The words fall into the lake, submerge completely in water, before another word arises.

Crushed.

The same process repeats, but this time a whole sentence is revealed.

Stir clockwise six times, then counter clockwise once.

Tom stares. He has never read about occlumency like this before. He places his hands gently in the water, and pushes against the soft grains of sand below. Nothing happens other than his hands sinking further in. He keeps pushing until he is almost shoulder deep in the wet sand, his chin tickled by the gently dancing water.

He wonders if he should move closer to the center, where the words are constantly floating, submerging, changing, and emerging.

"Tom. Tom!"

Tom is forced to retreat and face Black. She is asking him a question, waiting for his answer expectantly.

He shrugs noncommittally.

"So you think it doesn't matter either way?" She asks, considering him carefully. Before he can think of a safe reply, Hermione turns back to look at them, and catching Tom's eye, gives him a small private smile.

Tom feels flustered again. Did she feel him?

"Yes. It's fine." He answers confidently, before watching in horror as Black throws an entire beetroot into the cauldron.

"You're supposed to dice that!" He hisses, immediately grabbing his books and bag and scrambling away from his seat. Lucretia looks up at him in despair, and when she notices his retreat, attempts to do that same, but it is too late.

In seconds the cauldron is overflowing with putrid green slime, which burns through her quills and parchments, and then her potions textbook, spilling over to Prewett's bag which is hanging off the back of his chair.

Hazy green fog fills the room. The class is in a commotion, and Slughorn adds to it by shouting, "Settle down! Settle down, class!" Students are clambering about, covering their mouths and noses to try to get away from the smell. Lucretia starts to cry.

Tom sees his opportunity. He pretends to try to get away from the cauldron while inching towards Hermione. In the hustle and bustle, it is not strange that he grabs her waist to prevent her from falling. No one sees that he is the reason she trips in the first place. He keeps his hands low on her waist to steady her, and feels her flustered hands flutter over his before he slips his left hand into the skirt pocket he suspects most.

The tip of torn paper tickles his thumb.

Yes.

He pulls it out swiftly, grinning at Hermione who is attempting to turn in the cage of his arms to tell him off for touching her. When she sees the list in his hand and registers the wicked grin on his face, she lunges for the note, but this time Tom has the advantage. He is more than a head taller, and all he has to do is lift his arm to prevent her from grabbing it back.

He likes the way her body brushes against his. Tom lowers his hand just enough so she will try to jump for it again.

She looks ready to throttle him. Tom laughs. A full, guttural laugh that shakes through his body in relief.

Slughorn finally vanishes the mess, and class begins to settle down. Some students claim they need to go to the infirmary, an obvious bid to get out of double potions. Tom pulls away from Hermione promptly and returns to his chair, safely pocketing the note in his inner robe. He doesn't forget to flash Hermione one last genuine smile.

He adds a wink for good measure.

A/N: Up next: Tom is in a good mood, until Hermione ruins it. *rubs hands deliciously*

Also, did anyone catch the P&P reference? ;)