Ginny could not believe it.

She could believe that her life had become a series of lies stitched together, that she was lying to her mum, to her dad, to her therapist, to her brother, to her friends, to—no, not to herself, definitely not to herself. But she could not believe that of all of her lies, in all of her lies, something as ridiculous as Draco Malfoy had gotten embroiled. Draco. Malfoy. What on earth was wrong with her and how did it even happen? It was abnormal. She should talk to Healer Mervin about it. Hah! Ginny thought. Fat chance she would reveal anything personal to that crazy judgmental cow.

She did not know what to make of her … whatever it was, with Malfoy. They were NOT friends. They would just do things friends would do. Play quidditch together and talk. Or worse, just sit in silence like friends did. It was bizarre. Jarring. Ginny would sometimes be itching to exchange a smirk or a look of exasperation with Malfoy when someone did something foolish in the Hall or corridors. She would have to force herself to restrict herself to giving him a surreptitious nod of acknowledgement when they passed each other in the hall. She felt him do the same.

This unprecedented camaraderie that had sprung up between them was dangerous, it would have consequences, Ginny feared. Consequences that were already beginning to show. So, when she snapped at hearing one of her brothers say something nasty about Malfoy, she felt their shock resonate in her own body. She had been eating her breakfast peacefully in the Great Hall, by which she meant that she was thoroughly enjoying the impressions of Percy that Ron was doing, blissfully ignorant to the fact that George and Fred were sticking their latest invention in his hair. Luna, Harry and Hermione who sat with beside her were also taking delight in the prank. Hermione looking awfully guilty, though, for although she wanted to tell Ron that his hair was being ruined, she did not wish to ruin the fun.

"He's so bloody nasty about everything," Ron had grumbled, though looking terribly satisfied with having made everyone at the table laugh. Up until this moment, everything was light and correct, as Ginny remembered it to be. But it was when, at this moment that Fred had said, "As nasty as Malfoy's mum's face" to which Ginny had responded instantly with, "Not as nasty as your mum's face."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized a) she had cursed her own mother b) in front of her own siblings and friends c) to defend Malfoy's mother d) in front of her own siblings e) she had cursed her OWN MOTHER TO DEFEND SLYTHERIN, RACIST, CLASSIST MALFOY'S MOTHER IN FRONT OF HER FAMILY AND FRIENDS. Fuck, fuck, fuck—was the uninterrupted intermission in Ginny's head. Her flesh goospimpled, a flush spreading over her cheeks and neck. She licked her lips slowly, desperately trying to come up with an explanation, an excuse—something to alter the faces of her brothers and friends who were still looking at her with shock and expecting her to withdraw her statement. But Ginny couldn't think of anything to say. The silence dragged on. It was Fred who was the first to break it.

"What?" Fred asked, "Did you just-,"

"No," Ginny said quickly. "I meant. It's-it's wrong to say something like that about...someone's mum. I think...," she finished lamely. And it's okay to curse your own mother? Damn Malfoy, damn her! Damn her family!

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Ron asked, frowning.

"I have to go," Ginny said putting her spoon down in the porridge bowl seeing that she had no excuse good enough to quench their curiosity and confusion. Escaping was the next best possible option. As Ginny collected her books, the curious and disapproving eyes of her brothers did not leave her.

"Go where?" Ron asked, putting his knife and fork down. Uh-oh. If Ron was ready to give up food, then the matter was serious. Ginny had to run now. She looked towards her brothers and friends helplessly, but they stared back at her expectantly, waiting for her to explain her outburst.

"Ronald," Luna's serene voice cut through the palpable tension, "I think if Fred and George continue any further then the gimblenacks might cause some real havoc to your hair." Ginny looked at Luna in surprise, but the other girl only smiled softly, jutting her chin in the direction of the door. Leave now, she seemed to be saying. And Ginny did not need to be twice.

"Wha-," Ron began and touching his hair realized was full of gum. "YOU BLOODY ARSEHOLES. I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THAT YOU TWAT HOLES WOULD FUC-,"

"RONALD WEASELY!" Professor McGonnagal's voice boomed out from the staff table. Her figure was fast making its way towards their table. "I urge you to stop your vulgar tirade immediately!"

Ginny shot her best friend a grateful smile before choosing to leave the hall in a hurry. She could hear her brother being scolded vehemently and be handed out detentions, and amidst that rang her brother's voice with a clear promise. "We'll be right here when you return, Gin," George called out as Ginny almost ran for the door.

"Ginevra," she heard someone call as soon as she stepped out of the hall. She halted at the voice to see Malfoy sauntering towards her. She let out a groan of annoyance.

"What?' She asked, impatient. She spied a look of hurt on his face which was immediately covered up with his infamous smirk. She tried not to feel bad but couldn't help the pang of hurt that went through her for having hurt him. Arsehole, she thought to herself.

"What's got your wand in a knot so early in the day?"

"You," she spat, accusatorily. "But-wait, did you-did you just call me Ginevra?" she let out a bark of laughter. No one had ever called her Ginevra. It reminded her of Aunt Muriel. Her dead Aunt Muriel who smelled like a thousand moths and fell asleep with her face dipped in tea, or on dinner plates. She did not like it. At all.

"Well, it is your name, isn't it?" Malfoy said, with all the annoying flourish of arosticratic arrogance and propriety. Ginny's scowl softened a fraction when she saw a hint of self-conscious insecurity in his face. She rolled her eyes.

"My name is Ginny, Malfoy," she pointed out.

"Well, would you have me call you Ginny now?" Malfoy scoffed. His question surprised her. She spied him with narrowed eyes. Was he...?

"Is this a whole exercise in you asking me what you must call me by...?" Ginny let out a bark of incredulous laughter. "You're barking mad." Why was he so proper and stiff and lame? Gosh! Ginny felt the incredulity dim the anger and anxiety from moments before.

"Don't be ridiculous," she heard Malfoy mutter.

"Fine," Ginny shrugged. "Was there a reason to why you sought me out so early in the day?"

"Why? Are our rendezvous only permitted to occur in the dark?" Malfoy asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ginny's eyes widened with incredulity. Was Draco Malfoy flirting with her? "Malfoy? Aren't you gay? Why are you flirting with me?"

Malfoy sputtered with horror and indignation as a red flush creeped all over his face and neck. "What? NO!" He instinctively shouted, looking around the empty corridor self-consciously. He tugged at Ginny's arm violently, dragging her to a corner.

"Of course, my mistake. The overreaction was not a dead giveaway at all," Ginny said in a deadpanned voice.

Malfoy scoffed and looked as if he was about to think of another excuse to spit out, but thinking better of it, instead said, with his eyes narrowed, "who told you that?"

"Luna," Ginny said, as if that wasexplanation enough. It wasn't. Malfoy scowled harder at her vague reply, squeezing her arm tightly.

"Looney? How does she know?" Malfoy growled. Ginny slapped him hard behind his head.

"Hey!" Malfoy cried out in pain, clutching his head. "What in the bloody fuck?"

"Don't call her that!" Ginny growled. Malfoy looked at her angrily before his face softened. "Alright," he sulked still rubbing the spot behind his head which throbbed sharply with pain. Ginny wondered if she had hit him too hard. But it was well-deserved. At least now he would not ever call Luna that distasteful name.

"But how does Loo-na," Malfoy spat the last syllable out with hurried vengeance, "know?"

"She just does," Ginny said. "She's observant," she offered when Malfoy looked like he was going to argue with her logic.

Malfoy seemed dissatisfied with her answer but seemed to have sensed the honesty in it. "Alright. I would appreciate it if you—," Malfoy began but was cut off by Ginny, who said, "Yeah, got it, Malfoy. Anyway, what did you want to tell me when you first so vulgarly accosted me?"

"First of all, a Malfoy is never vulgar. A Weasley on the other hand...," he let his voice trail, crying out in agony when Ginny punched him in the arm for the suggestion he was making. "That hurt!" he cried, pushing her away violently. Ginny felt her right-side smart against where she crashed against the wall. "ow," she muttered in pain but gained her balance quickly to face Malfoy.

"You were saying something?" asked Ginny, unbothered by Malfoy's scowl.

"I saw you run outside the hall," Malfoy said, finally. "Is everything okay?"

Ginny's face softened at his display of concern before her insides were flooded with a sense of disgust. Ugh. Friends. With Malfoy Ugh, she groaned internally. "Yeah," she groaned. "It's...okay. Don't worry about it."

Malfoy nodded. "Also," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I have a surprise for you. Meet me at 9 at the edge of the forest tonight."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. This should be interesting, she thought dryly.

"Harry," Hermione cried out happily as she ran towards her best friend who was standing near the Big Lake soaking in the sun. He barely turned before Hermione crashed into him, taking him down with her. Harry laughed and put his arms around her best friend, hugging her close. When both pulled away from each other, they lay on the grass soaking in the sun. "Ron's in detention?" Hermione asked, even though she knew the answer. "Yep," Harry said, moving to lay on his side.

"What do you think is up with Ginny?" he asked quietly. He avoided Hermione's eyes when she turned to lie on her side. "I don't know," Hermione replied. Harry could tell she was being honest, but his heart did not hurt any less. "Do you think she—," Harry broke off, unable to finish his sentence. The thought hurt him too much to be allowed to exist in words.

"I don't know, Harry, I don't think so," Hermione said, taking her best friend's hand in her own and squeezing it tight.

"I don't think I'll ever stop loving her," admitted Harry softly. "And I don't think we'll ever get back together. It's not because of some thing, it's just because that's how it is, it has to be, because of the kind of people we both are…," Harry trailed off. Hermione pressed their interlocked palms against her cheek, finding herself to be at a loss of words. "I don't want to go to my aunt's place for the winter," he said, as an afterthought. "But I don't want to stay in school or visit the Weasleys. With Ginny around, I think it'll be uncomfortable…not to mention impossible for me to get over her."

Hermione pursed her lips in concern. She had decided to spend her Christmas with the Weasleys seeing as her parents wanted to go for a second honeymoon vacation for winter. "Why don't the both of us go away somewhere for winter?"

Harry looked at her, surprised. "I thought your parents were…," but seeing Hermione's mischievous smile Harry paused and asked curiously, "Without parental supervision?"

"Of course, we won't tell the school about it."

"Of course," Harry agreed readily, scoffing. He propped up his head on his palm to get a better look at Hermione.

"I'm serious!" Hermione laughed, sitting up. "We've done crazier things without adult supervision," Hermione raised her eyebrows, daring Harry to challenge her. He didn't. He looked away, pensive, before he turned her with a twinkle in his eyes, "so where do you think we should go?"

Hermione laughed and lay down on the grass again. "We've got two months to decide. Preferably somewhere warm," she added as an afterthought. Harry smiled, content, his heartbreak forgotten in the face of impending joy.

"We should decide what we're going to do in the next meeting," Harry said. "Yes, I'm meeting Dean in the common room in a half an hour to figure that out."

"Dean," Hermione called out, from where she was seated next to the fireplace. Although Dean was supposed to have been talking with Hermione, he had not even spared her ten minutes, before he said he had to attend another meeting. Another meeting! Hermione had tried to not let her disappointment show as Dean went to his "meeting" which turned out to be with none other than witches Hermione was well-acquainted with. Why wasn't she invited? Hermione wondered, bitterly.

Dean had been involved in what seemed to be an intense discussion with Parvati Patil, her sister Padma and Cho Chang and Hermione had refrained from inquiring as to what the discussion was about, although every cell in her inquisitive body pained to know. But she could not handle it anymore. Under the pretense of consulting Dean's opinion for her next newsletter, and the list of authors they were to read, Hermione called out to Dean.

"Hey Hermione," he shot her a friendly smile. He had not moved yet, Hermione noted displeased. How was she supposed to get her information from across the room now?

"I hate to bother you, but could you please come here? Help me with this newsletter? I would love to get your opinion on some of the things…," Hermione trailed off. Dean gave her a quick "sure" and immediately turned to Parvati and muttered something before walking in her direction. To her immense displeasure, Hermione noticed Parvati following him. Were they two dating or something? Hermione wondered annoyed. But Padma was behind her too.

Why were all of them coming? "What did you need help with?"

Hermione did not answer, only looked at the crowd questioningly. "Erm," Dean cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I won't be able to come to this week's meeting Hermione. Although I would certainly love to help you with the newsletter."

"That's alright. Is everything alright, though?" Hermione glanced suspiciously at the Patil twins behind him.

"Yes, it's just—I'm joining another club." Dean gave her a weak smile. "It's—it's going to be fun, I reckon. Doesn't mean I'm not part of the Mug-Club, anymore, of course."

Before Hermione could express her horror and surprise she was interrupted. "Read your newsletter, Hermione," Parvati Patil said from behind. "It was—enlightening." Hermione was ready to receive as a compliment and had been preparing herself to preen under the praise when she saw Padma, who was standing next to her sister, elbow her sibling sharply and shoot an uncomfortable smile at Hermione. Hermione frowned. Was something amiss?

"Thank you," Hermione said carefully. Were the twins—or only Parvati—also against the Mug-Club? They were purebloods but she had not anticipated any opposition from them.

"What are you doing?" Parvati asked, drawing close. Hermione glanced at the list she had been making. It was okay to share, wasn't it? It wasn't like Parvati would know anyway.

"I'm making a list of authors we are to read and discuss in the next meeting," Hermione said triumphantly.

"Oh?" The brown said peeking over Hermione's shoulder. Hermione barely stopped herself from giving into the itch of covering her work. Since she was a child, she had had the experience of her peers hoping to copy off of her and that had bred into her a habit of cover her work, shielding it from the view of others through her body. And though Hermione knew Parvati had no such intention—of course not! This was not a test! —she was still overcome with the overwhelming urge to cover her work.

Her classmate, however, caught the move and rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Hermione. Your ideas are safe."

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that," Hermione blushed, apologetic. "I just have a habit."

"Funny," Parvati said, though she looked anything but assumed. "May I ask who's on your reading list?"

"Muggle authors."

"With names, I hope?"

"Yes," Hermione admitted, annoyed. And said grudgingly, "Ginsberg, Woolf, Duffy and Winterson, to name a few."

"White, white, white and white," Parvati said with a shake of her head.

"White what?" Hermione asked, confused. Parvati gave her a look of incredulity.

"Surely you have noticed that all the authors on your list are Caucasian."

"A-are they?" Hermione frowned, looking at her list. Well… they were… "But it's not—I didn't—,"

"Yes, I know. I think this would be the right time to let you know I'm starting a new club," Parvati said with a very satisfied and smug expression on her face.

"What's it called?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"Club for Wizards and Witches of Colour," Parvati said primly.

Hermione's frown deepened. 'Club for Wizards and Witches of Colour'?

"But, there's no racism in the Wizarding world on the basis of skin colour—,"

"Then mind telling me why 98.6% of the population is white at Hogwarts and why 90% of Ministry officials are also white?"

Hermione blushed in embarrassment in the face of such transparent facts. "I-I," she stuttered, "you have Kingsley as the Minister of Magic," she offered weakly.

Parvati raised an eyebrow, "Riiiight," she exchanged a look of amusement with her sister who. Hermione was not used to this. She was not used to being the one at whom fingers were pointed at. One who did not know enough… she felt small, insignificant, wrong.

"You reek of mainstream," Parvati continued, "while your politics are leftist, you're still unable to take into consideration so many other factors, Hermione. I think you're starting to reflect the mindset of the people you're trying to protest against. Not very revolutionary, is it now, to promote the interests of only one kind of minority while completely ignoring the rest?"

"I care about elf rights!" she protested. "I am not racist, I obviously cannot be... I mean I'm friends with Dean, come on."

"Just do yourself a favour and stop talking Hermione," Dean said, shaking his head, giving her a disappointed look. Her stomach clenched with regret.

"Right. I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—but I—right." Hermione sat awkward and fidgeting. She wondered if she should leave the room. But Parvati and Dean had gone back to their group and were busily murmuring among themselves.

Hermione's face was still very much hot with embarrassment from the conversation she had just exchanged with her classmates. She couldn't understand how it could be that she was—she was—she was wrong! It was never her in the wrong. She had always been so… She fought for elf rights, for Merlin's sake! And suddenly she was—she was—but she couldn't be! She was muggleborn! She faced racism. She did not perpetuate it. It was preposterous. The suggestion. The implication. Completely uncalled for and based on a—a misunderstanding. For she had many friends from diverse backgrounds. None she could recall apart from Dean but dammit, she did!

"Well, look who just walked in mate," Seamus said loudly, snapping Hermione from her reverie. Padma, Parvati, Dean and Cho were also distracted by the loud interruption. Hermione was secretly glad for Seamus because she needed time to collect her bearings. She couldn't believe she had been put on the spot like that and had failed to prove herself. Upset with herself, she was welcomed the distraction and looked up to see whom Seamus was referring to. It was Neville who had just entered the Gryffindor common room with Harry and was the subject of said attention. "It's the—," Hermione couldn't hear what Seamus said because there was a loud gasp, resonating throughout the common room, rendering everyone silent and tense. She saw Neville's frozen face, slowly turning to face Seamus who stood there proudly sneering.

"A—What?" Neville asked, quietly. Hermione was surprised to find his voice was firm. "A Nancy boy?"

Seamus laughed. "Yes, that's right."

"Shove off, Finnegan," Harry began but Neville stepped forward.

"It's alright Harry," Neville said, and Hermione felt her heart drop into her stomach. She could see it—in his eyes, what he was about to do. She knew but she couldn't—her mouth, her mind couldn't conjure up the words to name it, to name it—that's what Neville was going to do. Name it.

"He's said nothing wrong."

"You—you're into boys?" Harry asked, rather stupidly, if Hermione was to be asked. She gave Harry a shove, irritated. "Sorry."

Neville cracked a small smile. He exchanged a glance with Hermione. She would have liked to say her face betrayed nothing but quiet confidence, but she knew if someone else were to explain it, if Neville were asked, then he would perhaps say her face bore an expression of panic and quiet desperation.

"Yes," Neville said simply, as he took his eyes off of Hermione and focused them on Seamus who stood in front of him. There was a dull lull in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione could feel her stomach clench. She couldn't—she could—she was supposed to go forward but she wasn't sure—she wasn't—She saw Harry, who had been standing next to her, step forward to stand beside Neville. Her face shifted in surprise. Perhaps, perhaps, Hermione thought, her inner monologue, her conflicts could wait and for this moment she could lend herself to her friend and to friendship. She could stand beside him, like Harry had done and later she could stand for herself. She moved to stand next to Neville too.

"So what do you plan to do about it?" Neville asked.

"I told you he was a Nancy boy," Seamus looked around triumphantly. While none spoke, many looked on curiously, whispering amongst themselves. "We can't have filth like ya in Gryffindor now can we?"

Hermione's heart quickened. Filth? She wanted to rip that Finnegan apart.

"It's not your choice, now is it?" Neville shot back. "Now that you've achieved what you had set out to do, shove the hell off," he ground out angrily. Hermione could sense the quiet desperation in his words, his plea almost.

"Tha' can't be right now, we've got to eliminate this stuff where it—," Seamus began but was cut off with a sharp, "Oh shut up Finnegan before I hex your balls off."

"Bloody hell, Patil!" Finnegan frowned, looking back at the person who had said those words. Hermione saw Parvati Patil, who had been perhaps standing behind Finnegan. She had her wand out, ready.

"Don't tell me you think—this is alright!? Normal? This queer—,"

"I'm warning you," Parvati said raising her wand. Hermione's looked on in surprise. She had never thought Parvati to be defending gay rights. She had assumed people from her background would be a bit conservative.

"Yeah, I'm a queer, a lesbian, a dyke, a floozy—what are you exactly planning on doing about it?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, disappearing into her hairline, she exchanged a look of shock with Harry. Was Patil being serious? Harry looked as unsure as Hermione felt. Patil's voice had the tinge of irony but also defiance. Hermione looked on in awe and disappointment (that she felt with herself and her inability to have stepped out and defended Neville the way Parvati was doing).

"You Merlin's soggy balls, you've all gone off your rockers! Keep off me! I don't want no homosexual germs on me, Merlin's sake!" Finnegan spat in disgust as he stomped out of the Gryffindor common room.

Today had been a stressful day and Hermione had decided to go to the library to catch up on some much-needed reading. She had wanted badly to speak with Pansy, but she was not ready yet. Not yet. She didn't know what to say to Pansy yet. She didn't like not speaking with Pansy, but was still steadily ignoring her owls. She didn't want to talk about this yet she decided to distract herself by studying. Hermione was joined by Riddle sometime around 10, and apart from exchanging a nod of acknowledgement, no word was spoken between them, each content doing their work. When the librarian came around to tell them it was closing hours around midnight, Riddle convinced her to let the star pupils stay on and study for longer. Hermione had watched with fascination as Riddle bent the librarian to his will, using the right amount of flattery and coquetry to get what he wanted. Save for a smirk, she did not feel inclined to comment on Riddle's mastery of manipulation. When Hermione finally felt she had studied as much as she could for the day, she closed her pens and put it in her pen box and started gathering her books. Riddle, who had been engrossed on studying whatever secret stuff it was that he was studying and refused to share with Hermione, looked up when Hermione started gathering her stuff.

"Going to bed already?" Riddle asked.

"Already? Its 3AM," Hermione said in a deadpanned tone.

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"It's 3AM," Hermione insisted.

"You can sleep in."

"And do what now? I'm done studying," she said, annoyed that Riddle always found a way to make her think that she was not doing enough, not studying enough, not working hard enough. Riddle did not reply to her question but instead began gathering his stuff too.

"We can think of some things to do," he said simply. Hermione frowned.

"Are we to behead a troll or drink the blood of a unicorn?"

Riddle smirked. "Did you not say you wished to learn about the runes I drew earlier?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And must it be now? At the devil's hour?"

Riddle gave her a devious smile. "Oh, it's the perfect time for it."

"The Forbidden Forest? Really? Again?" asked an exasperated Hermione, following behind Riddle closely. "I was kidding about the unicorn blood, you know," Hermione said, letting out a nervous laugh. Riddle ignored her as he continued off of the trail and deeper into the forest. Why was she here again? Hermione scolded herself for her own thirst for knowledge. It was going to get her killed someday, she feared. Or worse, expelled.

"We're here," said Riddle. Hermione gave him a look of incredulity. They were standing at the hollow trunk of a tree. It had a huge opening at the base of its trunk. "Is this a—," Hermione began but stopped abruptly when Riddle disappeared into the opening, without waiting for her to finish. Hermione waited a beat before following in. She did not expect to see the things she was seeing.

The tree trunk led to a cozy burrow of sorts—obviously expanded to the size of a small room through enchantment; big enough for Hermione to stand straight but Riddle to hunch. It was well lit with magical orbs that Riddle had placed around the burrow. There was a worn-out but clean carpet on the ground, which was littered with books and records—music records.

"What is this place and—and—you listen to the Beatles? And David Bowie?" Hermione sputtered in disbelief, as she kneeled down next to his set of music collection. "You listen to Muggle music," she whispered, taking a record out and putting it in the record player.

"No." Riddle said firmly as he took a seat beside her and removed the record she had put on. Hermione wasn't sure if he was no to the music or to her question. He lay on his back on the ground, pushing some of the books away. Hermione considered him curiously for a while, before saying, "What is this place?"

"What does it look like?" he looked up at her, folding his hands underneath his head to prop himself up.

"Your secret hide-out. But why would you need one?"

"Who says I have only one?" Riddle let out a lazy smirk. Hermione looked at him with suspicion. She wanted to ask him how many hideouts he had but knew it would not yield an honest answer, so she remained quiet.

"I don't understand," Hermione said, distracted by the muggle music records, "I thought you would hate muggles because you're in Slytherin but you're listening to muggle music…secretly, and interacting with me, also secretly," Hermione said slowly glancing around, even spotting muggle authors, "do you love muggle culture, secretly, Riddle or are you—," But Hermione was unable to finish her sentence for Riddle had cut her in between.

"You understand love, but you do not understand hatred. How it can consume you…," Riddle said. "You have not had your flesh burn with hatred, Hermione, I can tell."

"What do you mean?" Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Love does not need a reason, Hermione, but hatred does," Riddle replied cryptically. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You're really odd, you know, Riddle. And dramatic," she said, as she put a record in the gramophone. Riddle shot her a look of curiosity. "Which one is it?" he asked, impatient. Hermione shook her head, with a smile, and waited till the record started playing.

"Ah," Riddle smiled, "California Dreamin'? That's one of my favorite ones too."

Hermione beamed, delighted. "It's good, right? I played it for—," Hermione began but quickly shut up realizing what she was almost about to say, about to give away.

"Played it for whom?" Riddle asked, his eyes scanning Hermione's face. Pansy, Hermione thought, her heart hurting at the thought of her girlfriend whom she had not spoken to in days, Pansy. It was Pansy, for whom Hermione had played the song last.

"Played it for Ron and Harry, of course," Hermione replied flatly. "But they didn't enjoy it very much," she lied. "Ron prefers the Weird Sisters," well that was the truth, Hermione told herself. Riddle looked terribly unconvinced. He was still looking at her curiously. "We haven't had any Parseltongue classes for a week now," Hermione said in a desperate attempt to change the conversation.

"We've been busy this week," Riddle said smoothly, not taking his eyes off of Hermione. Hermione squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze, and tried to fill her head with song lyrics. California dreamin' on a winter's day, she sung in her head. It did not help.

"You were busy," Hermione muttered.

"Say, Hermione," Riddle said, looking terribly unconvinced, "What were you doing that night when we ran into each other?"

Hermione shot him a look of irritation. "You need to be specific, Riddle. We've been running into each other a lot of nights."

Riddle gave her an amused look. "I think you know which night I'm talking about."

"And stop calling me Hermione, would you?" Hermione said instead, frowning and crossing her arms across her chest.

Riddle ignored her and instead surveyed her for a few seconds before a slow Cheshire grin spread on his face. "Are you doing something naughty, Hermione Granger?" he asked, his eyes shining with malice and curiosity. Hermione resisted the urge to swallow nervously.

"You know what? I think I'm going to go." Hermione made to get up.

"No," Riddle said softly, but his voice was firm. Hermione shot him a look of pure anger. "Oh, come on, Hermione, I thought we'd have some fun, and you're already leaving?" he teased. Hermione made a face of disgust, but she paused at the entrance.

"What 'fun' were you hoping to have?"

"Don't worry, it's all PG13," he continued his teasing as he sat up, crossing his legs. Hermione watched him carefully. The song had come to a halt a minute or two ago. Riddle reached behind him, to get to the book case, and threw a book at her. Hermione caught it easily and read the spine. Five Ways to Identify Medicinal Plants. She looked up to see Riddle was giving her his usual patronizing look of amusement. Oh, how much she wished to break his face. She sighed as she opened the book to see it was not, in fact, about plants, but about runes.

"I thought we'd have some real fun," Riddle said, innocently. Hermione rolled her eyes but she made to sit opposite him. Well, the book did look fun.

"Where did you get it?" Hermione asked, seeing that it was not a property of the school library. Riddle only shrugged.

"One thing at a time," he said. "Now, do you wish to read your book or do you wish to know where it has come from?"

What a psychopath, Hermione scoffed. It felt like Riddle always needed to be in complete control of the situation or he would lose his mind.

"Not a very polite thought, but I wouldn't really doubt the accuracy," Riddle replied flatly, causing Hermione to look up in alarm. Had she said it aloud? Seeing her alarm, Riddle clucked his tongue.

"Is that something to think about someone who has done nothing but offer you the kindness of lending you a book?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and pointedly ignored him. "I'm guessing I can't see the other books you have?"

"You've guessed right," Riddle replied distractedly. He had picked up a book of his own to read. Hermione did not bother to retort and preferred instead to read her book in silence. Riddle and Hermione read for silently for a long time before Hermione was distracted by the sound of a thump. She looked up to see Riddle, who had, during the course of reading his book, laid down on the floor on his back, had fallen asleep with the book on his face. The book had now rolled off and fallen on to the floor with a thud, causing Hermione to look up. Hermione glanced at her watch to see it was almost 4:30 and decided it was time for her to head back as well. She wondered if she should wake Riddle up, but decided against it.

She however could not resist the urge to see what he was reading. As soon as Hermione's fingers touched the book, she knew it was covered in enchantments. There would be no point trying to break them at this hour. She glanced at his book shelf and a sigh escaped her lips invariably. All those books containing all that knowledge she had been dying to know. She glanced back at the book he had given her. At least she had that. It was so good and gave a detailed explanation on everything about runes, that Hermione was surprised why it wasn't available in Hogwarts. She decided to keep it with her and read it entirely before she could return it back to Riddle later.

"Shove off, Malfoy," Ginny said, literally shoving Malfoy from the taking the better broom. "You always take the better one." Ginny had found Malfoy, waiting at their regular spot, at nine 'o' clock sharp when she saw he was standing with the brooms Ginny kept stowed away in the tree trunks.

"Well, obviously," Malfoy said, holding the red broom away from Ginny's grasp, "I'm used to only nice things. You're used to using awful hand-me-down stuff, so the broom should make no difference to your game." Ginny glared at him and was surprised to find that there was no hint of malice in his face. Merlin's beard, Malfoy really was a bigoted classist to the extent that he did not even think his words could cause hurt or pain, or were in the least, improper to common sensibilities.

"You're a swot, Malfoy," Ginny scoffed as she elbowed Malfoy, and before he could recover, quickly tripped him, effectively shoving him to the ground and straddling his waist. "And I'd like to take my broom back, thank you," Ginny said, taking the broom from Malfoy's now loosened hold, as the boy groaned and moaned in pain beneath her. Ginny got up, dusting her pants, while Malfoy was still on the ground, complaining that Ginny had been too harsh on him.

"I'm going to get you for this," he promised, vengefully. Ginny only rolled her eyes. "So you keep saying," she said in a sing-song way, which she knew would annoy Malfoy even more. After a game of made-up quidditch amongst the two of them, Ginny finally asked, setting her broom aside and sitting down to lean against a tree, "So, what is it that you wanted to show me?"

"Ah, yes," Malfoy said, sitting down beside her, and reaching into his pockets for something, "this," he said opening his closed fist to reveal a necklace with a square amulet on it, "for you. To help with your sleep."

Ginny stared at it for a few seconds in silence before reaching out to take it. Malfoy and she had often spoken about themselves and in between conversations Ginny had let slip the reason she was out prowling the forests like a werewolf. It was because she couldn't sleep. She had not imagined, even for once, that Malfoy of all people would try and help her.

"It calms you down, and helps you have a dreamless sleep," he explained. Ginny looked at him, concerned.

"Where did you get it from?" It didn't look like something that could be bought off the streets. Malfoy only shrugged.

"Does it matter? What matters is that it's helping you."

Ginny frowned. She did not like that answer and Malfoy could see that. Before Ginny could verbally object he quickly added, "calling you Ginevra is becoming tiresome. I think I should be able to call you Ginny now, shouldn't I? And you can call me Draco, of course."

Ginny rolled her eyes as she kept the amulet inside her pocket. She would bring it up again later, she thought to herself. But her curiosity had won her suspicions over. She wanted to see if it worked.

"You left without saying goodbye," Hermione started at the sudden interruption. "Or should I say, goodnight." It was Riddle. After Riddle had fallen asleep last night, Hermione had let herself out and sneaked back into the dorms.

She had avoided him the entire day, unable to shake off the bizarre chill she had felt sneak down her spine when Riddle had said the weird things he had. Riddle was always weird. But Hermione felt she had misunderstood the depth and quality of weirdness Riddle represented. So, when she had found her safe secret corner in the library and cast disillusionment charms and such to hide herself from general purview, she had underestimated Riddle's prowess in seeking and disabling her charms. And thus, here he was, annoying her. Again.

"Reading muggle literature again?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione said in a clipped voice.

"For your time-travel research?" he jerked his head towards the novel she held in her hand.

"No," Hermione said, shooting him an irritated glance. Could he not tell she was reading? If she remembered correctly, Riddle loathed anyone even breathing within five meters from where he was studying. Clearly, he did not extend the same courtesy to others. Hermione huffed at the unfairness of it.

"What is it fo—," Riddle began but Hermione cut him off with a sharp, "the Mug-Club. Now, would you please excuse me? I've got a lot to prepare for and—,"

But Riddle seemed determined to ignore her protests for he asked, "Mug-Club? Now you're reading muggle literature together?" Was he—was he scoffing at her!? Did he think it beneath him?

"Yes," Hermione replied, considerably bristled.

"What for exactly?" Riddle's eyes shined with curiosity, but Hermione could see the feeling of disdain, of mockery in the smug smirk he sported. Oh, how she wanted to box his ears!

"I'm afraid it's strictly members-only information," Hermione said curtly. "Interested and eligible members may apply."

Riddle let out a bark of laugh. "Merlin forbid," he said. Hermione observed him shrewdly.

"You're eligible, you know," Hermione said quietly. "To join." Riddle shot her a frown, willing her to explain. "I know you're—," she faltered, choosing her words carefully, "you're well acquainted with the muggle world."

He gave her a blank look. Hermione continued nervously, "You did not seem surprised when I pulled out a pen the last time. And 'Devil's Hour'? That's from the Bible."

Riddle gave her a look she could not fathom. He did not say anything. Hermione could not understand if he was angry or not. She couldn't understand why he always got so bizarre about his background whenever it came up. She could tell he was uncomfortable about it. Although she wasn'tsure if he was Half-Blood or Muggleborn, she knew Riddle was, perhaps, ashamed of his blood status. Was it because he was in Slytherin? She couldn't tell. She yearned to ask him but restrained herself.

"How clever," Riddle finally said with a smile. She wondered if he intended it to be sarcastic. But his smile was warm and kind, so she thought he really meant it. Hermione only nodded in acknowledgement at the strange timing of his comment—compliment.

"I heard about what happened to Longbottom," he said. A topic changer? Hermione wondered while she gave a stiff nod. She was not sure she wanted to talk about Neville. She wasn't sure if it should be gossiped. She wondered if Riddle was a homophobe. He did show fascist tendencies…

"Seems like Slytherins aren't the only ones worried about purity," Riddle said with a small snort. Hermione shot him a glare. Seamus had decided that he would not stand for "queer floozies" in Gryffindor and had demanded a cleansing. He had even submitted an application to Dumbledore himself, apparently. Hermione had wanted to cut Seamus into slices and perhaps box him alive, in that cut state, and throw him in a locked case to rot at the bottom of the ocean.

"Yes, seems so," Hermione said sharply. She did not wish to speak about it—or anything. But Riddle seemed intent today to make conversation with her. "He's submitted an application to the administration," Hermione said with a scoff. She could not help the anger, the frustration from coming up to the surface. She didn't care if Riddle was a homophobe, if he was getting off of the fact that there were purists in Gryffindor as there were in Slytherin, if only of a different kind—she couldn't keep this anger inside. And what better conduit than conversations with Riddle.

"Worried they might approve of such a—," Riddle began but Hermione sharply cut him off, "Are you a homophobe?"

"What?" Riddle asked, blankly. Hermione stared at him, challenging him to play at ignorance. He surprised her with a curt, "No."

Aha, so the mighty Riddle— "And you, are you?" Riddle asked interrupting her train of thought.

"No!" Hermione almost shouted in disbelief. Her!? A homophobe!? She was—was what exactly? Well, she wasn't sure but she was something and that wasn't heterosexual. And she was therefore, by definition, far from being a homophobe. Homosexuals—or whatever she was—wasn't—couldn't be homophobic, could they? Hermione frowned deep in thought. Technically, by definition, they couldn't…and by that stretch neither was she. But then, but then why was she so…so angry with Neville? She was surprised by her own choice of words. Was that what she was feeling all this while? This sickness in her stomach, this uneasiness. It was suppressed anger.

She wished—she wished Neville had not come out, had not said all that he did, had not created the mess he had. It created so much anxiety in her. Pansy and she had just started dating after all—although with the fight yesterday Hermione was reluctant to speak with Pansy for a while. But still, they did not need the entire school in a mess about a scandal—much less a homosexual scandal! She needed peace and quiet—she needed the space for herself to figure out what she was and where she stood but Neville had taken away the choice from her. Had—had made her—had forced her to confront this. To be visible, to be loud, to be—out. And she wasn't sure, she wasn't ready. Not yet. Not yet.

Perhaps, homosexuals—or whatever she was—could be homophobic, she decided dejectedly.

"Are you alright there, Hermione?" she heard Riddle ask. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Worried about the school listening to Finnegan?"

"Do you think they would?" Hermione asked, blankly.

"Well," Riddle said glancing at her book and then at her, "all literature does warn one against trusting adults." There was a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Hermione fought the urge to smack it off of his face.

"Actually, Riddle," Hermione said, closing her book, "all literature warns one against trusting men."

Riddle gave her a look of surprise before his mouth twisted into a smirk. "And isn't Dumbledore both?"

"And aren't you at least one of them?" Hermione countered. She was sick of the games he was playing. It always seemed like Riddle sought not the answers she gave to his inquisitive questions but in what he presumed she refrained from saying. She hated this sneaky urge in him—this urge to know people in the vilest manner possible; to know them through coercion, cajoling; by deceiving them into giving themselves up, giving themselves away. Why couldn't he get to know people in a normal way? Riddle was bizarre and disturbed, Hermione concluded harshly, extremely irritated.

"How is your potion coming along?" Hermione asked. She had been researching potions which required fresh unicorn hair and but had not found any. What was Riddle making? He was too secretive, Hermione decided. She knew the answer was in those books he would always be reading. If only she could get a hand on those again. She knew she would not be able to find them anywhere but in the private libraries Riddle had scoured them from.

"Quite well, thank you," Riddle answered smoothly. Hermione knew he would not relent further details so found it fruitless to ask him.

"Will you be attending the Yule Ball?" Riddle asked when she had picked up her book to read again. At his question Hermione did not deign herself to lower her book or put it away. He had disturbed her enough, she had decided.

"Yes."

"Would you like to go together?"

Hermione glanced at Riddle, surprised. "That seems nice," she said, not apologetic at how her voice was dull and flat, "but I'm already going with someone."

"Who?" Riddle asked—no, demanded. Hermione frowned.

"I don't believe it is any business of yours but if you must know, I will be going to the ball with Ron."

"Ron?" Riddle's face contorted into confusion. "Ron—Ronald Weasley?"

"Yes," Hermione said annoyed. "Now can you please leave me alone to read in peace?"

Riddle did not reply as he gave her a stiff nod and proceeded to remove himself from her table with exaggerated violence. She could hear him stomp down the tables for another five seconds before he was lost to the silence brought by distance. Merlin, he was dramatic, Hermione thought.

Ronald Weasley going to the ball with Hermione Granger?

Tom Riddle felt his insides—for the first time—burn with rage over such a—such a frivolous subject. He was not—he was not—Tom Riddle was not jealous. He felt his steps heavy and loud as they made their way outside the library and towards the grounds outside.

Immediately spotting the flash of red hair belonging to Ronald Weasley he made his way over. He wanted to curse his balls off. He could if he wanted to, he knew he could. And none would be wiser.

The sun felt warm and nice on his cold skin but he could not be bothered for sunlight at the moment. Not when there were larger matters to be addressed.

"Ronald," Tom said coldly. "May I have a word with you?"

He watched with barely concealed disgust as Weasley made his way over to him after shooting an awkward, "Uh yeah" at him and turned to say, "I'll be right back, guys," to his friends. Don't count on it, Tom wanted to add but he didn't.

As they walked back to the corridor and the great shadows of the castle fell on them, robbing them of the warmth the sunlight had granted. Goose pimples covered their flesh. Riddle ignored the shock of shiver that ran down his spine at the sudden change in temperature. He pulled Weasley into an alcove.

"Is it true that you're to accompany Hermione Granger to the ball?"

"Uh, yes," Weasley said, rather stupidly Tom thought.

"If memory serves right, the last time I had asked you as to whether you had any plans regarding the ball, you said," Tom paused for effect and narrowed his eyes, "'Nah.'"

"At that time I-I didn't!" Weasley sputtered, "But well everybody around me was getting partners and a bloke can't go alone, can he? Well, he can and I was prepared to. But I was worried about Hermione. There's nothing sadder than a girl going alone so I asked her."

"A case of charity," Tom commented, displeased. Weasley really regarded himself in high esteem didn't he?

"Yeah," he grinned, foolishly. "Were you jealous?"

Tom gave him a cold smile, "I wished to ask you to withdraw your offer so I may be allowed to take Granger."

"Wh-what?" Weasley sputtered, indignant. "Bloody hell. No way am I going to do that!"

"And why is that?"

"Because I—," Weasley broke off, his ears turning red. Tom raised his eyebrows to show he was impatient. "I asked her first," Weasley spat out venomously. Tom considered him coldly before giving him a curt nod. He would deal with Weasley later, he decided.

When Tom made to move away, he felt his body be jerked towards Weasley's before he could tell what was happening. Had he been jinxed? By someone? But Weasley's triumphant look told him it had been no stranger. Jinxed by Weasley? Unlikely, he concluded. He realized it had been Weasley's hand that had shot out and pulled Tom by the belt of his pants, tugging Tom's body towards Weasely's own.

"I," Weasley said, grinning, "don't believe we're done yet."

"I don't have time for this, Weasley," Riddle sneered. "I'm going to ask you again politely to ask—,"

"And why should I do that?" Weasley shot back. His eyebrows rose up meaningfully. Tom considered cursing Weasley's balls off for a second but with the way Weasley's hand was making its way further down he thought it would be a pity to not enjoy oneself.

"If you insist," Tom smirked, "I'll let you have a taste."

Weasley rolled his eyes scoffing as he took a step back. "Let me?" He unbuttoned his pants. "I will let you," he nodded at him. "And perhaps if you have been good, I may return the favour."

Against his will, Tom swallowed, before quickly marking it as a cough of scoff. "Seeing as you—,"

"Oh shut up and get to it, Riddle," Weasley snapped, pulling his pants down. "We both know you like giving head."

"Always in such a hurry, Ronald," Tom smirked as he made his way to him. Weasley only smiled, closing his eyes and leaning against the back wall.

"Well, I apologize. Do take your time," he muttered under his breath as Tom began to work his magic. "How did I meet you?" Tom heard him mutter.

How indeed, Tom wondered.

Ronald Weasley often wondered if it was normal to think about food as much as he did.

Hermione and Harry seemed not very taken with food. It was a source of nourishment and sometimes of pleasure for them. But for Ron food was... It was a way to live. Sometimes he forgot to chew and focused on swallowing because he would be so excited to eat. It was such a pleasure, eating. Everything tasted so wonderful and it was right there—in front of him. He loved Hogwarts, there was enough food for everyone. Not that there wasn't enough at home. His mum and dad always had food on the time despite their financial conditions. But even then, there was always this niggling anxiety to eat only a certain amount and no more, because you didn't know when the food would run out. But of course, that never happened. Of course. Maybe once, or twice. But mostly never, Ron would tell himself. He would often feel guilty for thinking so because he knew how hard his parents worked to keep their family afloat.

None of these anxieties existed in Hogwarts, of course. None about food. He could eat and eat and there would still be enough for everybody and more, and more.

"The way you lot are nonchalant about food, I don't get it," he would say digging into the delicious meat pies, "you do not deserve these delicacies which the elves prepare with such hard work." Harry would only roll his eyes while Hermione would either ask him to chew his food slowly or he'd choke, or nag him about elf rights. Merlin, he had no one to turn to! He had hoped to find a comrade in Seamus and Dean, but they were more enchanted with explosives. Explosives! Why concern yourselves with blowing up stuff when you could be using that valuable time eating!? Ronald could never understand—never fathom—the nonchalance, the indifference. People were mad! Crazy! Pathetic! Or so he thought until he met one whose passion for food met his own.

Meeting people who were painfully nonchalant about food, Ronald Weasley met Tom Riddle. He had been intimidated by the latter, and had only ever watched him from afar. He had never believed they would exchange a single word in the course of their lifetimes, let alone school time. But here they were, exchanging more than words. Perhaps everything else but words. But it was delightful. As much as food. And along with food.

Riddle was cold, curt, kind, bizarre and kind of off-putting. But a thing Ron could not fault in Riddle was his love for food which only matched his own. They had been introduced by Hermione. Rather, Riddle had come to give Hermione a book to read for this project they were working on when Ron had been sitting beside Hermione.

"Pies from Ron's mother," Hermione had said gesturing to the food spread in front of them. "Do eat one before you go."

Ron had been a second away from snapping at his friend. He loved his mother's pies and he did not wish to share it with anyone outside from Hermione and Harry. But seeing as Riddle was already reaching for the pie, Ron found himself helpless. Fuming in silence Ron sought to at least jab his elbow in Hermione side but she had gotten up already and bid them goodbye. Left with the strange Slytherin eating his mother's pies, Ron resisted the urge to pack the rest and leave. He had felt awkwardness seep into the empty common room as he (im)patiently waited for Riddle to be done with the pie and leave. But he didn't.

Riddle surprised him by initiating conversation. He had assumed Riddle would not deign to speak to him seeing as he only interacted with people who were extraordinarily intelligent. And Ron was convinced he had nothing intelligent or interesting to say. Especially at the moment when he anxiously watched Riddle munch away his on his mother's meat pie.

"I must say Ronald, your elves seemed to have surpassed the elves of Hogwarts! These pies are absolutely delicious."

Ron's ears turned pink. "Erm, thank you? But it's all my mum's cooking. No house elves in our home," he tried to say proudly though his voice faltered. Everyone knew house elves were a mark of wealth and absence of the same was also a statement for the absence of wealth.

"Oh, well they're wonderful. Is it alright if I take another?" Riddle asked, cheerfully.

"Of course mate, here you go," Ron handed him a pie realising only a moment too late that it had been the last one. Seeing Ron's disappointed face Riddle asked, "Are you sure you don't want this?"

"Yes, I am," he forced himself to say. "Have at it." He had caught the expression of raw hunger in Riddle's face, this need for the food that he was trying to cover up with politeness. But Ron had caught it. It was a need mirroring his own.

"Thank you," Riddle said quietly. Something in his voice had changed and Ron felt he must have really impressed the bloke. He felt good about himself, Ron did. In this position of giving, it made him feel powerful even. The ability to do good carelessly, effortlessly, was a privilege he believed largely lay only with the powerful. He could not give what he did not have, so he never gave. But today, today he felt powerful enough to give.

"If you loved this, then you would definitely enjoy my mother's apple pies. She makes desserts as well as she does savoury dishes," Ron boasted stretching out on the sofa.

"I love apple pie," Riddle added, as he took a bite of the pie.

"And custard?"

"I love custard too," Riddle agreed readily.

"And blueberry?"

"Yes."

"And—," Ronald began but Riddle cut him off with a firm, "I like them all."

"Merlin, is there anything you don't like?"

"I'm not sure," Riddle frowned. He seemed to be really thinking hard, genuinely. And Ron had never seen anyone ponder on food or even just the stuff he said, this hard, ever. He felt important. "Well I do hate the goo they serve when I go back."

"Go back where?"

"To the orphanage," Riddle said, with a sad face. Ron felt shocked by Riddle's sad admission. His heart clenched tightly. "Well, don't worry about it, mate, I'll send you stuff from my house. Just give me your address and—," Ron was unable to complete his sentence because of what happened next.

Riddle seemed perhaps as horrified as Ronald himself. They had been talking of food a minute and the next minute they had been kissing, and it was just the taste of pies that both could remember later.

"I'm not a—," Ron began, but was cut off with an indignant Riddle who said, "Neither am I!"

And then they pounced on each other anyway.

They would meet during lunch and between breaks and always in the in-between of things. Always in a hurry, or a rush and never with leisure. Tom would wonder how things came to be, but then stop himself. He was not one to wonder. And not about Ron Weasley, of all people. But there some bizarre fascination he felt with regard to Ron Weasley that he himself had not been able to quite comprehend.

"Ron, do you mind chewing before swallowing?" Tom heard someone-Hermione-say, and he held himself from snapping, he's fine, thank you. Tom Riddle had a fetish. He loved watching Ronald Weasely eat. It was ridiculous. Preposterous. Blasphemous.

But it was the way Ronald Weasley would butter a scone, without a missing a spot, would munch away without wasting a second, and never leaving a crumb that satisfied Tom so much he could not help staring, and staring.

They should make a show out of it, he decided. A show on the Telly. Ronald Weasely eating. A snigger escaped him at the thought. How ridiculous. What would one even call the show? Eating-show? Hah. Who would even watch it? Riddle knew he would. Oh, he would watch it alright.