Hello,

This is a simple little one shot about Tom Riddle. I was just thinking about how just simple things help mould the minds of the young and this seemed to be a rather pleasent little thing to write.

Perhaps I will write another based some time in the future a head of this one in which there actually a little romance (T/H.)

Please enjoy.

(Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but wouldn't say no if it were offered to me.) :)

Crushing Flowers and Intentions

Summary: A young Rom Riddle is searching for a spell and instead he finds and interesting little girl and something other than muggles to crush.

Because sometimes all you need a little distraction...

Tom Riddle had made progress. It was small indeed, he could recognize that - a mere four followers, each uncertain and not yet committed to him and his cause. But, unlike others, Tom knew this was a step - a large and defining step towards a dream he would achieve. Once he had drawn four then others would surely follow - they would question and explore with curiosity and he would sway them to see things his way, the right way.

And tonight, he would meet them and each of the four would fall into step behind him.

This, was exactly what he thought as he observed his figure in the long cracked mirror that leaned by his dorm bed. His appearance was acceptable - his collar stiff and hard against his neck, his cloak heavy and dark and covering most of him, his hair was neatly in place and his face as expressionless as he could make it. He was not yet as tall as he had hoped, by no means short but still not the looming heightened figure of a Malfoy. It was fine though, he was sure that would come and only add to the intimidation he intended to impose.

Satisfied, he moved away from the glass and sat on the edge of his bed, flipping open a leather bound book as he did so. Smoothly he opened the book to the intended page and ran his finger down, over the printed words and through the dust.

Each spell in the book was equally as awful as the last, Tom had thought at first. The first nine pages detailed spells that involved flower arranging, growing and flourishing, after that were simple predictable spells. In fact Tom had noted that the majority of the spells that appeared to be even the tiniest bit useful did not work, or did so in the most disappointing manner. That was, at least until he had spotted this one.

You see, his intention had been to find a spell that would enable him to apparate around the school grounds, or in and out. He was certain that somewhere there would be a spell, that might aid him in his quest, in a book. He had tried all the most impressive of books, those depicting the most powerful of magic, those explaining the darkest forms and the oldest he could find. None of them had what he was searching for, none came even close to working within the school ground, and so he had resorted to a stack of old, sappy and unwanted books that had sat in the corner of the library, simply waiting to be thrown out (he remembered thinking that only the simplest minded of even Hufflepuff would consider reading them and even then they would stop after the first few pages.) thinking that somewhere, hidden within their pages. He had been right of course (was he not always correct?) and at one during the previous night he had stumbled across a spell: Ducious Opus, will draw you to where you need to be. It had already been circled once in pencil by somebody else.

Success, he'd decided, was sweet. Rather than trying the spell then he'd decided he would try it when he needed it - it was no matter if it did not work, he would simply fly or walk instead.

And so now he stood and rose his wand, in the book there was a faint illustration that detailed the pointing of ones wand at ones feet. He mimicked the action with a sharpness and in a clear voice, called:

"Ducious Opus."

Perfectly annunciated, he complimented himself in the brief second he had before he disappeared.

It was not at all like apparating, there was no tearing and changing, no whirling and flipping, simply a dull grey buzz, a dreary darkness and then light, a painful shocking light before reality.

Tom had not expected to be astonished, he'd not expected to have created a problem for himself - others tended to do that for him. In fact, he'd only expected the spell to either work or not work - he did not at all expect to find himself trapped in an oil painting of a large, hideous bowl of fruit.

It only got worse, for when he looked beyond the boundaries of the painting he saw a small room that was not at all recognizable to him. In fact, not only did him seem to have skipped from one place to another entirely but also danced across time as well. The room was flooded with the light and sound of Summer, back at Hogwarts the night had already begun to settle in and it was an Autumn wind that swept through the castle. He wondered whether it was just seasons he'd changed or years too.

"How interesting," He said allowed. Then he sighed, yet another spell that did not work.

Instead of panicking (Tom Riddle did not panic at a mere inconvenience as this.) Tom walked to the center of the picture and scanned the room: Two tired looking chairs, a strange simplistic bookcase, light walls, a fresh cream carpet and, apparently, a large drawing of a bowl of fruits. In the center of the room was a small squirming ball of flesh. A girl, he realized. A short happy girl with long brown curly hair and a circular, innocent face. The girl was sitting, legs crossed and hands moving quickly. She had certainly not heard his comment and was focused entirely on the objects in her hands.

What an incredibly strange thing to be doing, he thought.

Riddle stared for a moment longer before bothering to blink, ensuring that what he was seeing with in fact reality - it was.

The girl was pressing large luminous flowers between the pages of numerous sad looking books (He could not read their titles from such a distance but the covers were glossy in texture.)

Why on earth would anyone want to do that?

Really quite fascinated he slumped onto the floor of the painting and watched as she proceeded, he had a few minutes to spear. She had a rhythmic way of going about her odd little task (four seconds to select a flower, six seconds to select a page, two seconds of lightly fingering to lucky plants petals before eleven seconds of smashing it mercilessly within the book and occasionally sitting on it if the flower was an obnoxious size.) It was almost astounding that she seemed so equally delighted with each flower from the smallest dreary garden weed to the hideously coloured ones that out sized her head (excluding her mane. Yes, it was definitely a mane he decided. For 'hair' or 'curls' or even 'nest' were not satisfactory labels for the magnificent volume that sat on top of her head.)

What kind of girl was so sadistic that she spent her days of summer destroying the things that she took such a great happiness in viewing?

He supposed he really could not criticize her - crushing flowers was not nearly as dramatic as what he wanted to crush.

He nodded firmly to him and then crossed his legs. The girl appeared to have stopped to take a break and was now gazing down at her short podgy fingers, coloured by the juices of her poor floral victims. Seemly satisfied with their soiled state she lent back on his elbows, her fingers brushing and staining the cream carpet she lay upon. Her round face pointed upwards into the sunlight and her bare toes wiggled.

She was freckled, Tom noted. Combined with her ridiculus hair she was quite the child. Tom frowned, she would not be beautiful when she grew up. No, her face was too round, her nose to flat and he mouth too thin. Pretty, maybe, if she found a person attracted to such unusual traits. But not beautiful.

Tom leaned forward and looked more intently. She was... charming though. He supposed that's what it was with her small intelligent eyes and restless air. Charming. Not to him, of course, but he would understand why someone of lesser quality might think so.

He watched the little girl for a fair amount of time, interested, mildly. "Hermione!" A voice interrupted their silence. Tom tilted his head. Hermione, he decided, was definitely a wizarding name, not uninteresting enough to be muggle.

He smirked and in stormed a women.

"Hermione, dear, I've been looking for you all over..." She trailed off and gazed down at the child before her. "Are those my books?"

This woman was much different, she commanded little attention in comparison to the child, Hermione. She wore a night robe, white and thick, wrapped tightly around her. Her features were grown up but plain and unexciting and her manner was panicked.

"These... these are my books, Hermione! What on earth have you done?" Now she was grasping desperately for the books that the girl had decorated with flowers and flipping through their pages, discarding the plants and gasping in horror at the stained paper they left.

Hermione was simply frowning at the woman, confusion and impatience dancing across her features. Tom watched as she screwed her face up until her nose was crinkled and her lips were a mere line resting above her chin.

"I was..." She began, her voice was fitting with the rest of her, it was intelligent and assured but lacking in true understanding.

"Why would you want to press flowers, huh, sweetie? I know you don't understand these things but mummy needs you to not do these... unusual little things you do with her things, okay?" Tom frowned. Well, that was rather pathetic. Why were all parents so?

Hermione mirrored his expression in her childish manner but directed it at her mother.

"I was trying to preserve their beauty." She stated simply, as though that made everything right, as though it were painfully obvious.

"Right..." Her mother replied sighing, "How silly."

"Silly is how I would describe your books." The lion cub replied quickly, clearly irked by her mothers choice to degrade her in such a way. Silliness was clearly something Hermione felt strongly about. She spoke like an adult trapped within the body of a small child. Tom applauded her from his position in the painting.

"What a thing to say!" The adult cried. "What on earth could you know about books, you seem to forget that you're a child!" The woman balled her fists and settled them on her hips. "No more of this, Hermione! Think about what you are doing and behave!" and with that she scoped up her dirtied books and disappeared from the room, her foot steps echoing long after she was gone.

Tom looked on and wondered if little Hermione might cry. He had seen child cry before after a good scolding, he'd seen them wail. Hermione did not cry, instead she gazed down blankly at her pile of remaining flowers. Tom feared that if she cried now the tiny droplet of respect she had gained from him might evaporate (she had angered her mother and ruined her property with such delicate indifference that he felt she deserved it.)

The girl did not cry, instead she picked the largest of her selection - a violent purple number with thick rounded petals, and began to rub it between the palms of her hands until they were both harsh violet. A smile had formed on her face and Tom was compelled to look on.

Slowly, she reached both hands out in front of her, dropping the tattered remains of the flower to the floor. And then, quickly, as to not lose her nerve, she pressed her small hands onto the carpet, leaving two bright coloured splodges before her. She repeated this again and again until around her was a circle of stains in the shape of hand prints. She smiled satisfied with her work and pushed herself to her feet, rubbing her grubby fingers on her dark skirt. Happily now, she skipped from the room, perhaps to fetch more flowers, and the Slytherin boy was alone again.

Tom stayed for a minute or two longer, staring at the stains she had left.

Contented, he decided that he'd return to his dorm, rather than the forest where his companions would be awaiting him.

...Who needed to discuss the annihilation of all muggles right now? Perhaps he might just pick some flowers instead.

And there you have it, one rather silly little one shot about the fickle mind of a young Tom Riddle.

The spell is just something a made up with minimal knowledge on these kind of things.

"Ducious Opus: will draw you to where you need to be."

The spell transport you into a painting (hence: draw) within a place you need to be (this place is decided by: fate, your soul? I do not know what forces act in our world.)

:)