The rhythm of her life returned to normal as much as it could. She attended classes, herded the boys, studied, patrolled, and assisted Tom with club activities.

The Saturday after her return, she and Tom didn't have a serious discussion, but instead focused on what to do with her OWLs swiftly approaching.

He wanted her to do well, he said, to surpass everyone else. In his day, he'd gotten thirteen OWLs. There were only twelve available now, and she would take eleven of those examinations, as the twelfth wasn't all that important.

"You'll get Outstandings in them all," he'd told her.

She desperately wanted to talk about his plans more, but Tom was firm that it could wait until after the exams. They were too important; his plans required her to be beyond reproach. There would be plenty of time after OWLs and before NEWTs. Tough, he reminded her, it was imperative she not slack in that regard either.

Those Saturdays became grueling work in every field. And she would drop into bed at night and sleep straight through breakfast. Draco, dear friend that he was, always snagged something for her from the kitchens to eat Sunday morning.

Those were the only days Hermione didn't write in her journal, since she was with Tom for so much of it.

Monday through Friday saw her reading as she walked the halls, taking notes as she ate, and in the library after classes. Unless she was patrolling that evening, she was studying until curfew. Only Tom's insistence that (and Draco's pleading, and Ron and Harry bribing Parvati and Lavender to keep an eye on her in the girls' dormitory) kept her from staying up to the quiet hours of the dark morning. And even then, the other girls weren't perfect. Neither was Hermione.

The day before exams were set to start, she paced in his office and lamented that he would no longer help her prepare.

He leaned against his desk in that too-attractive, casual way she knew well by now, amused by her anxiety. "I cannot prepare you anymore because you are ready, my love. All you can do is rest."

Amber eyes honed in on him and narrowed. "Rest. What good will rest do me? I am rested."

"Are you?" He smirked, then gestured her toward him. One arm snaked around her waist to pull her close, confident that he needn't worry about interruptions on this Sunday evening. "Darling, you look exhausted. I know you stayed up late last night despite my orders to go straight to bed. Didn't you?"

She blushed and ducked her head.

"As I thought. Do I need to tie you to your bed for you to stay in it?" His tongue flitted across his lips and he stared hungrily at her blush. "Although, if I had to do that, I don't know that I would allow you to sleep. You would be quite the sight, spread out like a meal for me to enjoy."

Hermione covered her mouth in mortification as she let out a squeak. It was a strangely appealing thought, having him do such a thing. She was worried he'd see her desire, so pressed her face against his shoulder.

He chuckled, a warm, masculine sound that fit in with the clean, spiced scent of him. "I will do that one day. You'll look so pretty for me. Perhaps I'll tie you in green silk ribbons to unwrap like a present."

"Tom," she murmured. "You're embarrassing me."

"Am I? You're absolutely precious, love, if even that little makes you squirm. You've no idea what I have in store for you." One large hand soothed down her back to settle on her hip and squeeze. "You tempt me too much, Hermione. I try to behave and wait until you've graduated, but you make it so difficult."

She pulled back enough to glance at his face and judge if he was serious.

His eyes were midnight black and heavily hooded as he gazed at her. The curve of his lips was like a knife blade with how it cut her to her core. She wanted him to go further, to push more, so she was adrift in him.

It was as heady as it was terrifying.

"How are you feeling now, sweetheart?"

She shrugged. "Not quite as anxious, I suppose."

He hummed. "That's good. You know." These words were said so off-handedly, like it was a turn from the current conversation, and she wasn't sure whether she should be grateful. "You can take matters into your own hands to relax, since I'm unable to assist how I would like."

"What?"

"I mean that you could touch yourself, Hermione." The hand on her hip squeezed again, the one on her nape sifting through her hair so he could sweep his thumb across her lips. "Orgasm is therapeutic at times. I would very much like it if you used it to ease this stress tonight."

She knew what masturbation was, and had, like almost every other teenager in the history of humanity, explored. But to be told she should touch herself to orgasm by someone else, by an adult, her professor, Tom, took her breath away.

"You can do that for me, can't you? If you need any assistance, I could even provide instruction."

Her lips were parted, and she felt like she still couldn't breathe.

"Have you done it before, love?"

Slowly, she nodded.

Tom hummed. "That's good. So, you should already have found what feels best. Do you pluck your little button, or use these pretty fingers to slide inside yourself?" As he spoke, the hand on her hip glided up and over her arm to touch her own. She couldn't talk in the face of his bluntness. "I asked you a question, love."

"Tom," she said plaintively. "I— I can't—"

"Do you use your fingers on your clit?" he interrupted coolly, staring at her to await her response. When she nodded, the corner of his mouth twitched. "And inside yourself?" She nodded again. "Good girl. That's all I wanted to know, sweetheart. I want you to do that tonight before you fall asleep, do you understand?"

"Yes."

He kissed her forehead. "Go on, then. Sweet dreams, Hermione."

She felt like she was dreaming when his hands slowly drifted from her flesh as he sent her on her way. "Goodnight, Tom."

She laid in bed for long minutes after completing her task, sweaty and panting and staring into darkness as black as his eyes.

It occurred to her just before she fell asleep that she was as firmly in the palm of his hand as she'd even been before.

The OWLs were two long weeks of essay followed by practical back-to-back-to-back. At lunch, she'd commiserate with Draco and the other boys about the written portions, though her complaints and worries were far from, say, Ron's. And then they'd all face practicals that left them drained of magic and tired to their cores.

After dinner, she would write about the examinations in her journal, imagining Tom at his desk, chuckling over baseless ramblings on what she might not have gotten right, and how maybe she wouldn't get an Outstanding on the subject of the day. And her last thoughts, as she drifted to sleep, were of his hands on her flesh and lips against her own, of unspoken promises, and plans he'd soon whisper to her in the darkness.