Their legs dangled off the seat, but he was pressed against her from their hips to their chests. The closeness was shocking—embarrassing—and rather a bit more, something that Hermione was not about to admit to herself. She was not going to acknowledge just how much she liked this degree of intimacy and how much she wanted to repeat it, perhaps in the corridors, abandoned classrooms, maybe even the bookshelves in the library. Riddle was unattainable; he had many female admirers but no female companionship. He even turned down the girls who just wanted to snog him. Why was he doing this to her—her? It was just to make her uncomfortable, she was sure. Somehow he did know about the secret direction that her imagination had occasionally gone, late at night....