Thorns

A/N: I know I said Christmas, but I've written enough of this story to give you a chapter for Thanksgiving! Well, sticking with the holiday theme, of course xD

Thanks and a hug to everyone for their wonderful comments on chapter one: fictitious-imagination, Saene, Ruby, Sakura Takanouchi, Morbid DramaQueen10, Serpent in Red, evil-sami-poo, Evil Clone Number 7, Nobody'sNobody, Hajnalmadar, Right or Ryn, LittleAnne, Coco96, 0Rosina0, SilverLugia101, Veneficus L., xXTwilight PrincessXx, susannajulia, Gloriana the Younger, Emeloo2, and Kirtash R. Thank you all so very much!!

And now I give you chapter two. Enjoy!


Chapter Two: Janus

Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions,
and for a hundred visions and revisions—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot.

Friday December 25, 1994

9:50 pm

Hermione sank against the cold stone floor of the second-floor hallway—it was as far as she'd been able to make it before collapsing. She sobbed into her hands, ignoring or forgetting about preserving the carefully applied makeup she had worn in preparation for what she had thought would be one of the best nights of her life.

Now, instead of butterflies raging in anticipation in her stomach, all she had was a violent stampede of guilt, anger, and sadness.

Her guilt was directed towards Viktor; sweet Viktor, she reflected, who had done nothing wrong short of wanting to be her friend, although that in itself now seemed to be a crime punishable by extreme indignation and isolation, according to Harry and Ron.

Although some part of her knew it was mostly Ron's fault, and towards him her anger was solely aimed. He thought…no, he believed that he had the right to tell her who she was allowed to date, who she was allowed to spend time with? That she could do what she liked, as long as it was with him? That she could be overlooked, ignored until she was needed by him, and then was expected to be ready and waiting for him?

That…that…wart on the back of a Bowtruckle! She thought angrily, wiping the remnants of cold tears off of her cheeks as new hot tears began to trickle down in their place in anger.

She grew even more incensed the more she thought of him; it was all Ron Weasley's fault!

When she had been told about the Yule Ball Hermione had been ecstatic like most of the other girls, but where they simpered and giggled together about just who would ask them, and what color dress robes to get to match their date's hair, Hermione had thought she knew exactly who was going to ask her, and what exactly was going to happen. After accepting Viktor's kind offer, Hermione knew that Ron would never have thought of formally asking her. He expected her, he did not need her nor want her around, and that thought scared her more than anything else.

Her sadness was directed towards no one but herself. For no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the trap. She wanted to be wanted; was that so hard?

Apparently so, she thought. Her tears spotted the pink silk of her dress, and Hermione smoothed it with her tear-stained hands, making it look even worse. She didn't care anymore. She never cared about her appearance, but Viktor had told her that she looked beautiful in the library with ink stains on her fingertips and untamed condensation-frizzed hair. She wanted to prove his words true—she did not consider herself a beauty by any standards, but his smile was worth it.

And Ron's condescending frown undid it all; hours and hours of work for nothing. She didn't know why she let it bother her so much, but it still did.

She glanced around her surroundings grimly, still able to hear the music and laughter coming from downstairs. With shaky legs she stood, leaning against the cool stone wall for support. It wouldn't do to be caught out here like this; it was bad enough that half the school heard her fight with Ron and Harry—Ron's voice could be loud enough to carry across the Atlantic Ocean, as far as Hermione was concerned—she did not want the combination of fake sympathy and scorn that would be heaped upon her if she was seen like this. Tears ruining rivers through her makeup; were two men not enough for her? She could hear what they would say. Poor little Hermione, having to rely on spells for her love, and even those don't seem to be enough for her.

She continued to use the wall as a brace as she headed towards the stairs. Really, she'd had enough people judge her over the years; she didn't need her best friends adding to the mix.

She climbed the stairs slowly, taking them one-at-a-time. Her speed was half due to her shoes, which even with a low heel were still fairly impossible for her to walk in. The other half was happy being in this limbo between the Yule Ball and her common room. As long as she was out here, she would not be forced to interact with either side. She could pretend that the night was not yet over, and that she would not be confronted with it tomorrow. She wouldn't have to deal with awkward questions from any younger Gryffindors still in the common room, nor would she have to face anyone from the Yule Ball with their own questions about what had interrupted her seemingly idyllic trio camaraderie.

By the time she reached the seventh floor, she could no longer hear the festive music being played downstairs. It made her feel better, like the sweeping notes were no longer holding her down in her distress. It would be even easier to forget the whole night ever happened when she erased all visible reminders of it, from the music to her uncomfortable shoes and fancy dress robes.

Sure, they say that time heals all wounds, but Hermione didn't have the time to waste. Wounds and all, she staggered back down the seventh floor hallway, the lights turned down low, considering the late hour.

By now her tears had dried over her cheeks, and fatigue began to pull at her eyelids. She needed her sleep, she still had much to do helping Harry prepare for the Triwizard Tournament, as the mystery of the egg had yet to be revealed. She frowned; Harry would undoubtedly take Ron's side in their argument…she was, after all, in his words, 'fraternizing with the enemy.'

That idiot Ronald, she thought irately. For the moment, he was all she had to blame for the intense feelings of loneliness coursing through her body.

No one understands me. I just want to be wanted. It shouldn't be that hard!

Against the backdrop of the shadows of the night, Hermione hardly noticed as the thin lines of a doorway crept over the wall to her right. She stepped into a patch of moonlight, suddenly aware as the door finally sprung to life, intricate scrolling patterns almost carved in to the wall, and the ever-present doorknob waiting for her final command.

In a rush of recollection, Hermione remembered the similar doorway that had appeared to her months before. She had dismissed it almost as quickly as the hourly bell had rung in her haste to return to the fold of her House. Now, it had returned.

She moved closer, brushing one hand along its surface, surprising herself when she could feel the outlines. She traced them with her fingers, following the scalloped edges and swirls of the door almost to reaffirm its existence. She had never spoken about it to anyone; she was surprised at how easily its memory had left her own mind. Her hand dropped lower, where the doorknob seemed almost to surge out towards her, beckoning her inside.

She had progressed far enough in her Ancient Runes class to recognize the runes. 'Eo' for voyage and 'anhelo' for intuition…that doesn't sound too bad.

She was faced with the same dilemma as before; to open the door, or leave it and her unanswered curiosity about what lay behind its depths behind?

If things had gone differently that night, she might not have chosen this path. She was tired of always being taken for granted, of always being on the sidelines. She wanted to do what she wanted to do, and at that moment she wanted to open a door.

The others would have counseled her about taking precautions, as who knew where the doorway might go? Hermione didn't care, she wanted to know, and decided in that instant that there was no risk at all, for why would Hogwarts send her a door that would only lead to deeper despair? It was not like she would have very much farther to go in that regard, after all.

With her mind made up, she wrenched the doorknob, finding the door opening inwards almost automatically. Now widely awake from adrenaline, Hermione took the first step across the threshold, holding her breath as she waited to be shown what was on the other side.

It was quite disappointing.

She barely noticed as the door closed behind her, hardly noticing the dull hum of omnipresent magical energy flowing through the air as she took in the sight before her.

Heaped up junk on high bookshelves, books themselves heaped on old armoires or cracked tables, thick layers of dust covering everything in sight; Hermione wrinkled her nose at the musty smell.

Well, I surely wasn't missing anything before, she thought distastefully. Who would want any of this?

It was clear that the objects had been abandoned, and she assumed some of the items had been there for a very long time. She wandered up the closest aisle, inspecting some of the items to see if anything valuable or useful could be found.

She heard a shuffling sound far off to her left, but figured that it was probably just some of the objects falling off of one of the shelves, they were quite high up. Even by craning her neck up to a strikingly uncomfortable level, she still couldn't see the tops of some shelves. It made her wonder how the objects had gotten there in the first place. Broomsticks? Her stomach shuddered at the thought.

She peered at the objects around her, catching glimpses of the titles of ancient worn books, broken costume jewelry, and discarded toys. A small mirror caught her eye, curiously devoid of any signs of dust; she could see her reflection clearly, along with something else interesting behind her.

Hermione turned, surprised at seeing something so out-of-place in this—for lack of a better word—infinite storage closet. Beside a tall rack of dark glass bottles rested an antique wooden curio cabinet, spider webs and dust collecting in its open shelves and drawers. What interested Hermione most, however, was the large jar of perfectly unblemished, ageless flowers resting on top, displayed in a curved glass jar. She walked closer, out into the middle of the intersection between the aisles, staring at it.

It was obviously magic-enhanced, for how else could the yellow and white lily flowers remain so perfectly in full bloom, when everything else around them was stagnant and collapsing?

Hermione's attention was fully devoted to the flowers as she walked to within an arm's length of the cabinet, reaching out a hand to touch the petals. Before she could even react, she felt the thin edge of a wand pressed lightly against her back, the even breathing of its wielder now audible when before Hermione could have sworn there was nothing at all.

"Who are you and what are you doing here."

The voice was deep yet stern, uncompromising in its harshness of the tone even as the words flew from his mouth—for it was most definitely a he—in an almost artistically affective grace. She turned slowly, still surprised at how dense she had been in unnoticing someone else's presence near her, and angry that someone would speak to her that harshly.

The wand was still pointing at her, and Hermione eyes bravely met those of the room's other occupant, her hands moving to her hips in mild defiance, all thoughts of the perfectly mid-bloom flowers gone.

Everything about him was strikingly normal, but at the same time twisted just enough to make it seem distinctive. He had black hair and dark eyes, a straight nose, and lips that were at the moment pulled down in a very chilling frown. He looked to be about the same age as Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, except his plain dark robes bore no Hogwarts crest, from any of the houses.

Does he…live here? Hermione was confused. The wand was still pointed threateningly towards her, so she decided to answer.

"My name is Hermione, and I happen to be exploring," she answered curtly. "And I might ask you the same question. I hope I am not bothering you, as this place seems to be big enough for at least a hundred people to occupy in peace."

"Exploring?" He sounded amused. Hermione was not.

"Yes, exploring," she answered. Really, what else could one possibly do in there?

"Why?" He asked idly; Hermione looked away, instead focusing on a spot near his shoulder. She found it disconcerting, to say the least, to look directly in his eyes. She was still on edge, but she supposed if he did live here—for that was both the most logical and absurd reason she could think of—then that would naturally mean all the things in here belonged to him. She supposed she too would get more than a little annoyed if someone came wandering into her room and started going through her belongings.

"Curiosity," she answered, hands still on her hips. For the first time Hermione became aware just how strange she must have looked, in a formal ball gown, her makeup ruined by tears, her hair probably returning to its previous unkempt state. "Why do you ask?"

He lowered his wand, and Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. Merlin, it wasn't like she was dangerous or anything.

"Curiosity." A wolfish smile accompanied the soft response.

She supposed his height was made all the more intimidating by her own less-than-average stature, but this odd introduction was seriously not what she had expected when she wandered through the doorway that night. She took a step backwards; it felt like she had overstayed her welcome.

"Ah, well, sorry for bothering you," she said. "I suppose I'll just be off now," she finished hurriedly, taking yet another step backwards into one of the aisles directly behind her.

Instantly, the expression on the man's face changed. She couldn't hear his shouted words as her back collided with one of the rickety bookshelves, her right elbow knocking a small red box off the shelf. She barely had time to react before it impacted with the ground, exploding as it sent small red sparks flying in all directions.

Hermione shrieked as one singed her sleeve; she barely noticed that the room's other occupant had instantly whipped up a shield, but as Hermione's hands sought out the nonexistent pockets on her dress, feelings of true, cold dread began to wash over her. She did not have her wand on her.

The sparks flew out in all directions, some painfully hitting Hermione and the rest colliding with the entire shelf behind Hermione, wobbling as pieces of the old wood were blown off. She stared up in horror as the entire, seemingly miles-high bookshelf began to fall towards her, more pieces snapping even as the sparks ceased, dust rising in voluminous clouds as objects on the shelves began to fall, ceramic pieces breaking into slivers on contact, books and toys thudding to the ground with unearthly loud noises. Hermione instinctually covered her head with her hands, trapped between the bookcases as the entire structure broke apart, falling heavily towards her. She screamed, flinging herself to the ground as her short life flashed before her eyes, every fiber of her being screaming with adrenaline as she sought some promise of safety, hoping with her last breath that she would live through it as the dust clouded her vision and she waited for impact.

It never came. Hermione's fingers were clenched around her ears, hands still shaking from the shock. Dust settled around her, and she coughed as some of it unwittingly entered her lungs.

She opened her eyes, blinking as they began to water. Her knees hurt after the impact with the hard floor, and she still cringed at every shadow in the fluctuating curtain of dust as more objects began to come into view. A broken china vase lay shattered to her left, and she could see the remnants of shelves within an arm's reach of her nose. She squinted as she struggled to see something else just escaping her vision. A thin blue line appeared to encase the air before her like a bubble, and as she reached one shaking hand out to it the filmy circle disappeared with an inaudible pop, vanishing as the broken remains of the shelves above her collapsed with a thunderous cloud of dust; Hermione continued to cough frantically as she staggered forward, pushing stray pieces of wood out of the way as she sought clean air.

Her left arm was grabbed below the shoulder and tugged forward; she assumed it was the man from before, and she was right. She continued to cough even as he dropped her arm, shuddering from a combination of dust and confusion.

He waited for her to finish coughing, and Hermione finally got a good look at the scene around her. Her mouth dropped open—more dust entered—but she had no idea how she could have possibly survived something like that. It looked like half the room had caved in, although Hermione only had the smallest indication of how large the room really was.

She turned back to him, trying to portray the gratitude she felt through her shaking voice. "T-thank you," she coughed out.

His expression became one of deliberate amusement. "What for?"

With a look of pride and dismissal and was that…jealousy? She couldn't tell.

He continued. "You did that…Hermione." He said her name with forced difficulty, but Hermione didn't notice. She was staring at her hands like she expected them to suddenly sprout tentacles or turn green; of course neither could happen. She felt normal again, as though nothing had ever happened.

"What exactly h-happened?" Her hands were still shaking, and she replaced them at her sides with hesitation.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't know." His words were spoken with careful deliberation, almost tenderly drenched in regret. "Your potential is being wasted at that school."

Hermione shifted her stance uneasily. It was true she felt unchallenged, but she would defend Hogwarts to the death.

She decided to change the subject, gesturing to the now-broken giant bookshelf. "I-I'm sorry about…that…" she finished feebly, unsure how to apologize for unintentionally wrecking what she assumed might be hundreds of carefully catalogued items.

His laugh startled her; it did not sound fake, but neither did it sound genuine. Good-natured? Maybe, at the least.

"It is easily remedied," he assured her, wand artfully waving with the slightest of movements in a spell Hermione did not recognize. Almost immediately the dust vanished, the progression of time seemingly dissolved as the broken pieces of the bookshelf flew together, items stacked back in their original places until no trace of Hermione's interference remained. She would have guessed the entire process took less than five seconds.

He acknowledged her awed expression, laughing softly again. "Hogwarts wasn't made to help people like us, was it? They'd keep us in our place forever, if they could help it."

Hermione looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

He grinned crookedly, more of a smirk than a true grin. "Would you like to learn how to do magic like that? The things I could teach you…Hogwarts barely scratches the surface of what magic can offer. I can tell, you desire knowledge, don't you, Hermione?"

She mutely nodded, entranced by the sound of his voice and the immense power behind his words and the magic he used to back them up with. And he was offering her that

"I will meet you here again a week from tonight." Now his tone had changed; it was firm, strong, a command. She had accepted, although she barely realized it, but there was no backing out. Like the popped bubble of her shield, it was like the spell of the evening had vanished; it was time to leave.

He grabbed her arm again, lightly this time. She turned back.

"I assume I do not need to tell you not to repeat our meeting to anyone." The corners of his mouth turned up wryly. "But I will do so anyway. One week." He released her.

Hermione stumbled away, finally tearing her eyes away from his as she retreated towards the room's entrance.

She did not realize it at the moment, but she had not even gotten his name, just like he had successfully evaded all of her most pertinent questions, questions that were now submerged in her consciousness as the weight of the evening's events came crashing back down on her already strained emotions.

The fire of her desire for what he offered had been ignited; she could not put it out if she tried, not even if she wanted to. She did not hesitate in her acceptance.

One week could not come fast enough.


A/N: Title significance: Janus is the roman god of doorways and arches, whose two heads looked simultaneously towards the past and towards the future. Do I have to explain any more of the symbolism? xD I decided that name was a fitting title for this chapter, where Tom and Hermione finally meet.

As the 'Room of Hidden Things' becomes the same place for everyone, I consider it no stretch of the imagination to believe that this state will also cross over for anyone in any time, if they ask for it.

Restating what I said in the last chapter, I will be alternating chapters between Tom and Hermione's POV, so in the next chapter, we'll get a close-up of what brought Tom to the Room of Requirement that night.

For all those wondering what exactly Hermione did to save herself, that will be explained in the next chapter in Tom's POV. I always have a logical explanation for everything I write about, so you will get your reason!

If you want a faster update (not Christmas? xD) then be sure to review! They mean so much to me, and it only takes a moment of your time! Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

~Kako