"Well," Headmaster Dippet begins awkwardly, eyeing the long gash on Tom's cheek warily, "Well, Mr. Riddle! I did not expect this from you. Professor Merrythought says you and Miss Birch have created quite a mess in her classroom."

Tom resists the urge to correct the headmaster; the name Granger just barely contained between his lips.

"I'm very sorry, sir." Tom looks down apologetically. His heart is still racing with pure adrenaline. He thinks if he wasn't wearing a shirt, he'd be able to see his heart aching to leap out of his flesh.

"Perhaps you two can take a moment to explain yourselves?" Dippet summons two chairs toward them, and Tom takes his seat quietly next to Hermione. The energy between them is tense. Tom tries to smooth things over.

"It's all a misunderstanding, sir," Tom begins, hoping Hermione lets him do the talking, "Professor Merrythought asked us to practice shields and counter-shields today. Hermione is very advanced, sir, as I am sure you already know, and I was so eager to keep at her pace, I got a little carried away." He ducks his head in mock-embarrassment.

He can practically feel Hermione's contempt radiating at his side.

"Is that what happened, Miss Birch?" Dippet turns to Hermione, scrutinizing her.

"No, sir."

Tom's head swivels so fast he thinks he'll have whiplash.

"Oh? What is your version of events?" Dippet clasps his hands together over his desk, looking at Hermione intently.

"He was goading me, sir. So, I let him have it."

Tom thinks his eyes may fall out of his head, so he lowers his gaze and stares at the floor. He's flushed down to the chest. The insolence of this girl.

"Did you goad her, Mr. Riddle?" Dipper is studying Tom now. He's got this strange expression on his face, like he's never taken the time to really look at him before.

"No, sir." Tom answers dutifully, taking care to appear apprehensive. He turns slowly to meet Hermione's profile. Even in this angle, she's stunning. He wishes he could strangle her. "I'm very sorry you misinterpreted my enthusiasm, Hermione. I certainly didn't mean to offend you."

His tone is carefully controlled. He sounds almost sincere even to his own ears. Tom thinks he delivers a very convincing performance, if he can say so himself.

"You didn't offend me." Hermione snaps, not playing her part correctly at all, "You were being annoying and overstepped, so I put you in your place."

This little speech is followed by a beat of silence. Tom clenches his jaw.

"I apologize." Tom grits out through his teeth. He doesn't just want to strangle her; he's going to.

"You don't at all sound apologetic." She flips her hair over her shoulder, her haughty nose in the air.

"Would you like me to beg?" Tom demands, breaking character.

"If you think that's necessary."

"Now, now." Dippet raises a hand to halt their rapid exchange of terse words, "I sense a real animosity between you both. How unusual, as I'm sure Mr. Riddle is one of our finest students, Miss Birch. I chose him for the Head Boy position myself. I'm sure you simply got off on the wrong foot." He gives Hermione a stern look.

She doesn't have the decency to look properly chastised.

Tom is losing his temper. She always has to have the last word. He catches her eye for a moment before sending her a silent warning—play along or I won't play nice.

Since when have you ever been nice? she asks back.

It sends a thrill through Tom at how easily she picks up this mental back and forth.

"I believe I am quite of Professor Merrythought's opinion that what happened today merits detention. Perhaps one month is a little excessive, but we can always review the matter at a later date."

Tom is barely listening to what the headmaster is saying. He focuses on Hermione again.

You don't respond to nice. You only play when I'm mean.

I don't want to play at all, is her reply.

Her legilimency is a little rough, but Tom likes the way her words grate against his brain like a rugburn. It creates a stinging pain that leaves a tender little reminder of what caused it in the first place.

Hermione shifts in her chair as Dippet drones on, crossing one leg over another. The motion exposes one creamy thigh. She catches Tom looking at the swell of her leg and pulls down her skirt until it covers her knees. Dippet is saying something to him now, but Tom guesses it doesn't require a response if he manages to appear adequately contrite.

I want to see more of your skin.

It's a risky thing to say, considering she's still clenching her wand in her palm, but Tom can't help himself. He holds his breath.

Keep dreaming.

I will, he says, I do.

She rolls her eyes. Headmaster Dippet notices, and incorrectly assumes she's unhappy with his reprimand.

"Now, Miss Birch. Please, behave yourself. Detention with Mr. Riddle will hopefully allow you to see his merits as a fellow student, housemate, and friend. I hope you two learn to get past your differences. You can start by cleaning the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Professor Merrythought will be waiting for both of you tonight at eight o'clock. Come prepared to work hard. No magic will be allowed."

They are dismissed. Tom barely has time to stand before Hermione is already exiting the room, apparently in a rush to get away from him. Tom slinks back, letting her have her space. He turns back to the headmaster and smiles politely.

He's got damage control to do.

"Headmaster Dippet," he begins, "I want to apologize again for my behavior. I know this is very unlike me."

Dippet examines Tom's face critically before waving over a teapot and matching china cups. He pours the aromatic tea quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He motions for Tom to return to his seat.

"Milk and sugar?" Dippet asks.

"Yes, please."

Tom waits patiently as the headmaster prepares his drink. He knows the most important part of winning people over is allowing silences like this to stretch on without betraying your own discomfort. It is always better to allow people to make their own conclusions.

Lies are easier to accept if they are of your own making.

"I remember when I was your age, Tom." Dippet says, handing him the cup. Tom takes a dutiful sip. It tastes like milky piss. "So young, filled with endless energy, excited to take on the world. Intelligent. Capable. But also, very green in some respects." He looks up thoughtfully. One of the portraits snores loudly, and Tom restrains a smile, trying to appear serious.

"I can't imagine you that way, sir." Tom says, doing his utmost to appear deferential.

Dippet smiles warmly at him. "Ah, well. We all start somewhere, dear boy. I was a student here once, too, and Head Boy like yourself! I remember those days fondly now."

He absently mixes his tea with his spoon once more, and then takes a deep drink.

Tom waits.

"Miss Hermione Birch is very intelligent."

The non sequitur throws Tom off, and he has to think of how to reply.

"Yes, sir. She is."

"And she is in many of your classes, I understand."

"All but arithmancy and herbology, sir."

"Yes, yes. I remember the discussion around that." He waves a hand as if dismissing the thought, but Tom yearns to know more. He is on the edge of his seat as he attempts to think of some way to get Dippet to tell him everything about this so-called discussion.

Dippet fixes Tom with a stern look, and Tom's words die in his throat. Dippet has never looked at him like that before. Tom has always been his star pupil, his bona fide favorite. Would it really take only one incident to destroy years of Tom's hard work to get into his good graces? Tom feels sick. Will he be demoted from Head Boy? Everyone will know; he'll be publicly humiliated. He is humiliated, disgraced, snubbed, and rebuked—

"And I'm sure you've noticed she's a very pretty young lady as well."

Tom opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Dippet takes this as a sign to keep going.

"At your age, these types of fancies will happen and indeed, I am of the belief that they are rather important for a young man's development. Of course, some hair pulling is bound to happen on the school yard, so to speak, but I expect more maturity from you, Tom."

"I wouldn't pull her hair, sir." Tom says stupidly.

Dippet waves him off. "No, no, my boy. It is an expression; I know you wouldn't actually—. What I mean to say is," he tries again, "perhaps your little duel got a little out of hand because you like her. There are better ways to express that."

"I don't like her." Tom answers quickly. He's not even sure why he denies it, because he does. He likes her very much.

The headmaster obviously doesn't believe him. He smiles indulgently, "Be that as it may, I expect you to act much kinder to her from this point forward. Remember, Tom, she has only been here just over a month now. She doesn't have the advantages you have, and you would be surprised at how much the two of you have in common."

Tom cannot help himself. "What do we have in common?" He blurts, quickly adding, "…Sir."

Dippet looks at him knowingly, as if to say, I knew it. However, out loud he says, "You'll have to talk to her to find out." He finishes his tea, eyeing Tom's almost untouched cup. Tom stands, "Thank you sir, for the delicious tea and the advice. It is much appreciated."

"Of course, Tom, of course!" He stands, "You know you can come here anytime, if you need to talk."

Tom bows awkwardly, muttering his thank yous again, and leaves without another word.

XXXXXX

Hermione is instantly the most popular girl in school. It's the first time Tom has ever been bested in a duel, and the technicality of the win doesn't slow the wagging of tongues. Within hours, Hermione goes from a dark witch who was expelled from Beauxbatons for refusing to adhere to their rules, to Grindelwald's personal apprentice, to his international spy, to French femme fatale extraordinaire.

Half the school is convinced Tom is afraid of her, while the other half fervently argues that he is actually in love. Nott tells Tom that he heard a rumor in the prefect quarters that Tom and Hermione have been having a torrid affair every summer for years, and only dueled because they recently broke up after she moved to Scotland.

Avery corrects this rumor—they started their affair this year, but Tom is cheating on Hermione with Head Girl, so that's why they had the duel.

Malfoy counters that he heard from Lucretia Black who heard from Julia Sandal in Hufflepuff who has it on very good authority that a certain first year in an undisclosed house actually saw Hermione and Tom snogging in the Astronomy tower just this morning, so the whole duel is just a cover story because they don't want to get caught, since Tom is obviously dating Head Girl Yvette Wilkens.

Mulciber simply punches anyone he hears talking about it.

Tom doesn't mind the rumors so much. He hears an especially good one about the two of them losing their virginities to each other in a broom closet in Pringle's office, and almost laughs.

When he's alone, he rolls her name over and over on his tongue, trying to get used to the waves it produces. Hermione Granger. She pushes against his teeth. He holds the syllables in his mouth like a snake that unhinges its jaw. He wants to swallow her whole.

Hermione Granger, a muggleborn in Slytherin House. He feels smug about uncovering some of her mysteries. He thinks over the name Birch and how awkward and clunky it sounds now that he knows her real surname. Granger. Tom decides he will guard her name like his own. Not to protect her, but because he likes having it all to himself—the only one who knows this truth about her.

He wants to tell her, but he can't. Ever since they were dismissed from the headmaster's office, she is nowhere to be found.

The irony of her avoiding him does not escape Tom. He waits for her after every class, but she manages to slip past him each time. She doesn't come to lunch or dinner, and when Tom sneaks into the kitchens, the house elves all swerve his questions expertly, refusing to reveal whether or not she's been there today for food. Tom swipes a biscuit from the counter, and tucks it into his sleeve as he leaves. He stuffs it into his mouth later, but it tastes like gravel.

She can't avoid him forever.

They have detention tonight.

XXXXXX

Tom is alone as he walks to Professor Merrythought's office after dinner. His steps echo in the abandoned castle corridors as he thinks about Hermione. He wants to communicate with her using legilimency again. Detention will be the perfect place for them to practice.

He wants to ask her about her occlumency. He likes being in her mind when the lake is shallow and serene. He wants to know who taught her how to keep out intruders by choking them with her liquid thoughts. He's even willing to admit he'd never heard of such a technique before.

Tom's own occlumency is subpar. He tries to keep his thoughts and experiences in neatly packaged boxes, categorized like a library card catalog. This allows him to play his character well—Head boy, promising wizard, excellent student, model behavior—except sometimes he is overcome with what feels like an explosion under the carefully organized register. It sends his memories and emotions every which way, resulting in blackout rage. He has trouble even remembering those chaotic moments. Thankfully, they never happen in public.

While he is average as an occlumens, his legilimency is like a fine-edged knife—sharp enough to pierce without notice, no matter how deep the cut.

He still remembers when he first accidentally discovered this talent. The winter holidays are always miserable, but his twelfth birthday was especially so. The orphanage caretaker had gone out of her way to bake him a cake, which she hadn't done since the cave incident when he was seven years old. Perhaps being away at a boarding school for a semester had made her forget what Tom could do. Tom was excited; he rarely ever received such tokens of affection.

Some of the older boys tried to ambush him to steal it. One boxed Tom's ears so hard he'd lost his hearing for a week. Tom knew he could exact revenge, but he wasn't allowed to use his wand outside of school. This had frustrated him to such a degree that he had lost control of his magic. He entered the strongest bully's mind, screaming at the top of his lungs until something went pop.

The bully had gotten a terrible headache after that, and the caretaker had to send him to the hospital. The doctors said he'd suffered a ruptured aneurysm. Tom hadn't gotten in trouble, but the older boys avoided him after that.

When Tom came back to school, the first place he headed to was the library. He'd learned everything he could about mind-related magic, and decided that he'd unintentionally performed legilimency. Tom still has that thin pamphlet on the subject tucked safely in his trunk. He stole it from the library more than five years ago now. He intends to keep it for life. It is one of those keepsakes that one holds onto forever, because it marks a pivotal moment in one's life, a time of self-discovery.

He'd been determined at age twelve to become an expert at the obscure branch of knowledge, feeling convinced that it would be as easy as speaking to snakes. It wasn't. At first, it was like he had a block he couldn't surpass, like that feeling of irrational fear right before plucking out a loose tooth. Will it hurt? Will it bleed?

Becoming a legilimens is like ripping all teeth out at once. One had to have a complete disregard for the possibility of accompanying pain. And really, the soreness is not so intolerable—indeed, it feels kind of good. It reminds him of what he's done, like a tender bruise reminds an athlete of a difficult triumph.

At first, he was entering minds so sloppily that the targets would notice. They wouldn't know it was him, for really, how could a first year trying to mix potions know the reason for their massive headache was Tom Riddle behind them, ramming into their brain like a wrecking ball? He used to be thrilled with just learning their current thoughts. He completely lacked the finesse required to comb through a mind and extract the information he wanted. Nonetheless, he was having fun. Discovering, exploring.

He was a wizard.

It was an exhilarating time.

Now, legilimency is as easy as breathing for Tom. It is a new thing to correspond with another using this old skill. He's read about it before, knew it was possible in theory, but he's never had anyone to do it with.

Not before Hermione.

He knocks on the classroom door, and hears a distant "Come in!" Tom walks in to find Hermione is already there, standing with Professor Merrythought in the center of the room.

"Mr. Riddle. How kind of you to join us," Professor Merrythought greets him coldly. Tom pretends not to notice.

"I apologize, Professor." Tom says, "I was under the impression we were meeting at 8 o'clock."

"It is eight oh two, Mr. Riddle." Merrythought says sternly, and Tom checks his timepiece. It is definitely reading fifty-nine minutes past seven.

"I'm very sorry, Professor. My watch is a little behind." He explains, motioning to his wrist.

"See to it that you fix it, Mr. Riddle, for I will not be tolerating tardiness in the future." She holds out her hand, and Tom understands that she means to confiscate his wand. It is torture to hand it over to her, and he is only able to do so because he sees Hermione's in her hand already.

"Alright. Professor Dumbledore and I have only repaired the beam, as we agreed that it was a danger to everyone's general safety for two students to do it."

Tom holds his tongue dutifully.

"You two are responsible for the rest of this mess, however. Brooms and mops are in the cupboard. I expect the floors to be spotless by the end of the night. You have until curfew."

Curfew? She expects them to be cleaning for almost three hours? Every night for a month straight? Tom is indignant, but he does not let it show. The punishment is so over the top that it's not worth arguing about. The best course of action is to go along with it quietly and hope that Dippet will put a stop to it after a few days.

Hermione seems to be of the same opinion, because she walks over to the cupboard without a word, pulling out a broom for herself. She does not offer to do the same for Tom, so he follows after her.

She settles herself on the far corner of the room, and begins to sweep. Tom attempts to go after her again, but is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Professor Merrythought looks at him with pure ire, and then at the other end of the room.

Tom turns around and follows orders. Irritatingly, she watches him until he settles where she indicated, never letting him out of her sight.

He gets to work. He amuses himself by trying to probe Hermione's mind at such a distance. He isn't able to enter her head, not fully. It takes effort to stretch his awareness, but he finds he enjoys the practice. It feels like repeatedly throwing out a line to fish, but never quite getting close enough to the deep end to catch anything of substance.

He can only catch glimpses of what feels closest to the surface, and it's definitely not in English, so he can't understand it. He surreptitiously sweeps a little faster to get nearer.

He finds himself wishing again that Professor Merrythought would just leave. She is grading papers and seems occupied, but is frequently lifting her head to monitor their progress and being generally nosy. Tom thinks bitterly on how only a few days ago, Merrythought was begging him to show interest in Hermione. Now, she is determined to prevent him from even looking at her.

Tom can already feel a head-splitting migraine coming on. Hermione's mental verbiage drones on in some foreign tongue, almost like the crackling static of a faraway radio station. It does not sound like French to Tom. Spanish—maybe Italian. Tom feels a wave of jealousy flow through him. He doesn't speak any languages other than English, and little bit of Albanian that he has been learning for… reasons.

Tom is sweeping furiously now, and getting closer and closer to the center of the room. He tries again, but it's no use. She won't look at him; his messages fall on deaf ears.

The rest of detention drags on in this frustrating manner. Professor Merrythought dismisses them about ten minutes before curfew, ordering them to return at seven the next evening, as she has an appointment late that night and plans to dismiss them early.

Tom wonders what kind of appointment she might have at ten at night, but he keeps his mouth shut. Hermione charges out of the room the moment they are dismissed, and Tom has to half-run to catch up to her.

"Hermione!" He calls, but she does not slow down.

Tom falls back, stung at her rejection, though not willing to admit it to himself.

XXXXXX

For an entire week, Tom is forced to put up with the torture that is detention. He isn't even allowed to skip them for prefect meetings, and instead is forced to allow Yvette to do all the planning for the upcoming ball. Tom is incensed. It's all a complete waste of time.

The DADA room is very quickly cleaned, and thus, Merrythought thinks of new imaginative ways to punish them. They're forced to polish all of the trophies in the display cabinets, dust bookshelves and portraits, and service school brooms. All the while, she is sitting nearby, keeping close watch, thinking up new ways to torment Tom.

Once, while they are scrubbing cauldrons, Merrythought catches Tom eyeing Hermione's backside as she uses her entire body to aid her movements. She immediately shouts at Tom to mind his own work, causing Hermione to catch his eye and smirk at him. Tom turns around without a word, feeling warm for more reason than one.

This is the entirety of the attention Hermione gives him. She won't speak to him, won't look at him, won't even smile. It's driving him mad.

That's when he starts to plan. He simply cannot withstand her silence much longer.

XXXXXX

Tom grabs Avery before breakfast the next morning.

"Cillian. I need to talk to you."

Avery ducks his head and follows Tom into his room. Tom locks the door.

"What is it, Tom? Is everything alright?" He has a look of pure adoration in his eyes. Tom knows Avery feels proud to have been singled out by him. When Avery started Hogwarts, he was the runt of the litter. Even though his name held value to the other Slytherins, he was small and shy, which made him appear useless in their eyes. He was bullied in his own house, let alone the ruthless harassment that happened in mixed classes. Tom found him being pushed around by some Gryffindor boys outside of the potions classroom half-way through his first year. They were telling him his blood was worthless when he was so shite at magic—apparently Avery had tried to use his lineage to defend his right to attend Hogwarts. Tom considered letting them teach him a lesson in showing off, but ultimately decided to step in.

He'd given them all rat tails and ears. When they opened their mouths, they could only squeak.

Avery had been wrapped around his little finger ever since.

"Everything is fine, Cillian. You mustn't worry about me." Tom gives him an affectionate smile. While some need respect, grandiosity, self-importance to be manipulated, Avery is starved for love. He is the youngest of four accomplished brothers. He craves praise and attention. Tom gives it to him readily, as long as he stays in line. "Actually, I need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. Merrythought has it out for me since the dueling incident with Birch."

"What a bitch." Avery says passionately. Tom smiles at his eagerness.

"Exactly my sentiments."

"Do you want me to… hurt her?" he shuffles nervously. Tom knows he doesn't have the stomach for it, but he does his best to emulate the bloodlust of the older boys.

"That won't be necessary," Tom reassures him, thinking privately that Avery would be the last person he would ask if maiming the professor was his plan. "I think only a distraction is in order."

Avery's shoulders slump infinitesimally in relief. Even after three years under Tom's tutelage, he's still quite useless at being covert in his emotions.

"What do you have in mind?"

XXXXXX

That evening, Tom goes to detention as usual. They're tasked with writing lines on the chalkboard today, wiping them off when they've been filled, and starting over. It is a pointless exercise, clearly indicative of that fact that Merrythought is running out of ideas.

About an hour into this brain-numbing dullness, a distant explosion rocks the room, causing a fine dust to rain down on them from the tremoring ceiling.

"Stay here!" Merrythought barks at them as she rushes out of the room towards the source of the noise.

Tom straightens, brushing dust off his uniform. From the sound of it, Avery did rather well. He checks his wristwatch: it's exactly 9 o'clock—identical to what is displayed on the clock that hangs above the professors now abandoned desk.

He turns his attention to Hermione, who is still writing her lines as if unaware of the sudden shift in the room's population.

"Hi."

She ignores him, but this was expected.

"Not feeling very welcoming this evening, Granger?"

She gives him a nasty look, as if she's caught him picking at the scum in between his teeth at the dinner table. "Had your little cronies create a diversion, Riddle?"

Tom smiles. He's smug. "They come in useful sometimes."

"I'm sure they do." She punctuates her words by stabbing her chalk into the board, causing small bits of chalk dust to crumble as she dots her is.

Tom walks over, standing slightly behind her. He hopes it makes her tense. He reaches for a loose strand of her hair, and strokes the soft curl in between his forefinger and thumb. He feels nothing but the silky tendrils tickle his hand. Her shoulders stiffen, but she does not stop writing.

"Don't touch my hair." She intones.

Tom lets go, turning her to face him. He holds her chin between his two digits instead. He feels the pins and needles now that he touches direct skin. She looks down, her eyelids shuttering her emotions from him. It would be very effective if she didn't also lick her lips.

"Let go of me." Her voice is flat, eerily calm.

"Alright," He acquiesces, releasing her face to run his hands over the slopes of her shoulders and down her arms. He feels only the rough cloth of her uniform blazer. The weather is cold at night this time of year; she must have forgotten her cloak. Tom finishes his experiment by settling his hand around her pale throat. His palm starts humming with electricity again.

"I've been thinking," he starts casually, "We should put this all behind us."

"Is that so?" Her tone matches his; conversational, light.

"Yes. You ought to forgive me for my previous intrusion; I can't help myself when I've sniffed out a lie."

"Are you a dog, Tom?"

He leers at her. "In more ways than one."

"And what if I decide not to forgive you this time?" She can't be serious. Not when his hand is wrapped around her fragile neck.

"It's in your best interest if you do."

"Oh?"

"Hmm." Tom hums, leaning forward to unbutton the first button on her collar. Then, thinking better of it, unbuttons another. She doesn't move, probably astonished at how forward he is being. Tom pauses to study her, before reaching behind her to grab her loose ponytail. He gently unties her elastic, letting her hair fall loose down her back.

"Are you quite finished?"

"You're very beautiful, Hermione Granger." Tom tells her seriously.

She doesn't say anything in response to that.

"What secrets must you have in that pretty little head." Tom reaches into his sleeve and pulls out his wand. She widens her eyes briefly, before flickering up to meet his. They both gave wands to Professor Merrythought in the beginning of detention, but Tom hadn't given his. Mulciber was at Quidditch practice all night, preparing for the match against Gryffindor this weekend. He wouldn't even notice his wand was gone, and would certainly never know that Tom had briefly transfigured it to look like his.

Hermione hardens herself, and Tom can see her occlumency shields physically erected in her eyes. "I will drown you," she promises.

Tom knows she's true to her word, but he doesn't intend to enter her mind right now. He doesn't need to clue her in on that, however.

"What happened to your superior sense of morality?" He asks.

"I'm not going to go easy on you anymore, Riddle."

"Good," he practically purrs. It was just as he thought. The tip of his wand does fit perfectly into the hollow of her throat.

"What do you want?" she grits her teeth, her arms stiff at her side as he turns his wand in the perfect divot. It fits better than a cue stick does in its chalk. Tom wonders if it feels so satisfying because he likes turning the tables on her. Let her feel what it's like to be threatened for once.

"Stop avoiding me." He demands.

"I'm not."

Tom pushes his wand deeper at the lie.

She swallows.

"Try again." Tom prompts.

She opens her mouth, then out of nowhere, swings at him as hard as she can with the chalkboard eraser hidden in her fist. Tom, being about a head taller than her and at least fifty pounds heavier, easily catches her hand in midair, causing a cloud of white dust to erupt over them both. He pushes her backward, slamming her hard against the board. Their hands are clasped together around the eraser still.

"Stop testing my patience, Hermione."

She looks up at him with pure hatred, her nostrils flaring. He's got her right hand pinned so far above her head that she has to stand on her tip toes to keep from being painfully stretched. Tom's other hand is still busy pointing his wand at her throat.

She doesn't seem to like the change in position very much, because she attempts to yank his tie with her free hand. It's a last-ditch attempt, easily blocked with Tom's elbow.

"Just curse me already!" She snaps.

"Now why would I want to do a thing like that?" Tom asks, enjoying the way she struggles. Her anxiety is flowing off of her in waves. It feeds something dark inside him. It gnaws at his gut, creating a bottomless ache.

"You're a sadist." She accuses.

"Can you blame me?" Tom asks, adding, "You look good when you're pinned down."

"Fuck you."

Tom tsks at her. "Always resorting to such vulgarities when you know you've lost." He leans in to smell her hair. Vanilla, tar. Sweet, earthy, bitter. Comforting and warm. Raw and acrid. He brushes his nose lovingly against the shell of her ear. She never makes any sense.

"Don't fight me anymore." He whispers. She swallows compulsively against his wand, again and again. Tom suddenly grows very curious, and closes his lips over her earlobe. They too buzz with the energy contained in her flesh. He barely sucks at the sensitive skin. It's unbelievably soft. Soft enough to rip to shreds in his mouth.

She stops moving, becoming unnaturally still.

"Come, Hermione. Let's be friends."

"Friends?" she asks stupidly. She's got her head angled away from him, as if to offer him more of her neck. Tom smirks. How easy it is to make her as vulnerable to him as he is to her.

"Yes. As in: not enemies." Tom murmurs against her skin as he gently runs his nose over the slide of her neck; he finds he likes to tease as much as he likes to taste.

She turns her head to meet his gaze. "Friends do not threaten each other."

"Maybe not in France. We can kiss like they do instead, if you want," Tom grins. He knows she is holding back a laugh. She bites her lip to stop herself.

"Come to the ball with me," he asks abruptly.

"No." She answers just as unthinkingly.

"Then promise me a dance."

"Will you let me go?" she bargains.

"Absolutely."

"Then fine."

Tom pulls his wand away slowly, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. He thinks she's very good at acting unaffected, but he's gotten much better at reading her now. He leans against a desk behind her and crosses his arms, settling in to watch her. Hermione returns to her lines dutifully, as if Merrythought is still breathing over her shoulder. Or maybe she's trying to prove she isn't afraid to turn her back to him.

"I grew up in an orphanage." Tom tells her.

She pauses, but does not turn around. After a brief moment, she continues writing on the board. "I'm sorry to hear that." she finally says. If she is disturbed by the sudden turn in conversation, she does not show it.

"My mother was a pureblood witch. She fell in love with her handsome muggle neighbor."

Hermione says nothing still. Yet, Tom knows she is listening.

"She was ugly, and he didn't notice her. She grew desperate and brewed a love potion. As you can guess; it didn't end well for her."

If she finds this information disturbing, she does nothing to betray herself. Does she know he's testing her? Or is he testing himself? Does she think he's trying to level the playing field, now that he knows so many of her secrets? Maybe he is; Tom is not sure. He's seized with the sudden urge to tell her everything. But even this is too much.

Hermione only writes.

I must not be rash.

"I often wonder at her desire," Tom continues despite the scream invading his innards, telling him firmly to stop, "Her hunger overcame her sense of dignity. I don't think her appetite for him was ever satisfied, probably because she knew he was acting under the compulsion of the love potion she was feeding him regularly."

I must not be destructive.

"Eventually, she stopped giving it to him. She was pregnant with me. Her hormones must have confused his contrived eroticism for true devotion. For a long time, I could not comprehend such devastating lust. She died because of him, you know." Tom moves closer until he's standing right behind her, his fingers ghosting over her sides.

I'm sorry for what I have done.

"But I think I understand her better now." His voice sounds strained to his own ears.

He forgets himself as he wraps Hermione's hair around his fist, pulling it until she staggers back against his chest. His other arm winds around her hips so that the swell of her skirt is pressed against his groin. He forces her head roughly forward until he's bent over her, his fingers still tangled in her curls, cradling her skull. Her cheek leaves a long grey smudge through her stupid chalk writing. He bites her exposed neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin until she moans out loud.

She finally drops her chalk.

XXXXXX

When Professor Merrythought arrives, they're both obediently writing their lines on the board, standing on opposite ends of the room. They are most certainly not covered in chalk dust. Hermione's hair is pulled over her shoulder to further hide what her buttoned collar can't. She had asked Tom to glamour it, but he flatly refused, sucking her skin harder, grabbing her over her clothes.

Merrythought seems satisfied with their progress and hurriedly dismisses them, stating there's been an accident on the fifth floor that requires her undivided attention. Tom smiles, knowing his lips look fuller and pinker than before. He fingers the hair tie hidden in his pocket—another valuable keepsake. He checks the time.

Tom's wristwatch reads 9:33. The clock hanging on the wall reads 9:40.

XXXXXX

Hermione practically runs out of the room with her wand when they're dismissed, but Tom doesn't bother to try to catch her this time. He needs to stick to his plan.

He goes straight to the second-floor girls' bathroom, using the chamber entrance to take him to the seventh floor from a different route—a route Hermione definitely would not know. He disillusions himself and hides behind an empty suit of armor, staking out the hallway she always disappears in.

He doesn't have to wait long.

She emerges on the top step of the moving stair case, not glancing in Tom's direction. Still, he holds his breath. She's figured him out before, so he doesn't want to underestimate her. She walks toward him before she pivots and walks away, which confuses Tom. She does it again, and a third time when a door appears in the blank expanse of wall before her.

Tom almost cannot believe his eyes as she walks through it, the door dissolving into uninterrupted stone once more.

He creeps out of his hiding place and repeats her movements, walking back and forth three times, but nothing happens. He wonders if he can command this room with parseltongue like he does the chamber, so he whispers open.

Still, nothing happens.

He pulls out his wand, and wordless goes through a few spells, starting from the simplest alohomora and ending with complex runic keys. The wall remains solid, no door in sight.

Tom wonders if there is another way to get in, just like Salazar's chamber which contains one main, and multiple minor entrances—if one knows where to find them. There is only one seventh-floor entrance to the chamber, however, and it led him to this corridor.

This secret room of Hermione's must have been built by another founder. It stings Tom that Hogwarts has a secret it keeps from him. Not for the first time, Tom runs his hands over the rough stones of the castle walls, trying to find some trick latch or hidden handle. There is nothing—nothing to do but wait. He slinks back into his hiding place, this time taking a seat on the floor.

It might be a long time before she appears.

Tom will be ready when she does.

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