Before I begin my story, let me get this straight. I hate people. They're loud, gossipy, annoying and dreadfully dull. If it weren't for what they could do for me, I would just as soon they all walked off the nearest cliff.

But I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, never hated her.

Not for a second. (If you are reading this, I hope you know that).

So journey with me if you will, to a time long ago, though not much unlike today. A time of war, of prejudice, of fear. A German muggle named Adolf Hitler slowly made his way across Europe, an army of loyal soldiers in tow, claiming superiority of a race called Aryans.

What a load of nonsense! There was nothing superior about any muggle, no matter his religion or the color of his hair.

But there were air raids – bombs exploding through London, children being shipped out of the cities to stay with strangers in the country, general mayhem and panic – and as I have resolved to tell the truth and nothing less in this account, I must confess:

I enjoyed every bloody minute of it.

A heavy gray cloud hung over Wool's Orphanage. I stared out the window, listening to the air drill sirens whirring.

"Riddle. What are you doing? Come along," said John, one of Wool's new volunteers. His dirty blonde hair was slicked back against his head with so much grease it looked like a helmet.

"It is a drill," I replied drolly. "I gave up playing pretend years ago."

"Someday it's going to be the real thing and you're going to be right sorry that you missed out."

"On learning how to run down the stairs?"

"See you're already wrong. You're not supposed to run."

"If the Luftwaffe starts dropping bombs, rest assured, I will be running."

John shook his head and not one hair moved. "It's your skin, Riddle. What do I care?"

With that, the obnoxious muggle turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs. My mind played through every curse I could use on him that would make the German air raids seem like a child's firework show.

A cluster of Wych Elms grew to the south side of the orphanage grounds, looking stalwart and sullen, as if they too listened to the radio announcements from that boisterous, portly muggle: Winston Churchill.

The man said something once that, even after all these years, finds a way to twist and tangle around my mind, repeating as if I can still hear the crackle of the radio.

These cruel, wanton, indiscriminate bombings of London are, of course, a part of Hitler's invasion plans. He hopes, by killing large numbers of civilians, and women and children, that he will terrorize and cow the people of this mighty imperial city … Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, or the tough fiber of the Londoners.

...Little does he know the spirit of the British nation...

Anyway, we must return to the story at hand, and to those six Wych Elms that sat on the south corner of the lawn. There was a flash, a grand spark of light, exploding within their closely knit branches. At the time, I assumed it was just a rebellious ray of sunlight cracking through the overcast but now I know differently. That was the moment the world changed.

But I'll get to that later.

Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.

What was I writing about again? Oh yes, air drills, that's right.

While my peers at Wool's Orphanage huddled together in the bomb shelter beneath the building, I relaxed, my legs kicked up onto the crisp white sheet of the bed, mentally counting the days until I returned to Hogwarts, perfectly pleased to be alone. The desire to be with others was a weakness I did not share, nor did I wish to.

That was when I heard the knock at the door.

It was a strange thing, the knock. Not only because it was rare that anyone came to visit but that the knock happened during a time when everyone was supposed to be buried underground – like badgers.

I ignored it, leaning my head against the wall. But then there was another knock and another and another until it turned into a downright knocking frenzy. With a groan, I leapt out of the bed, shoved my wand in my back pocket, stormed down the stairs and through the drab grey hallways to the front door. I grabbed the handle and viciously slung it open.

Now for those of you who don't know I feel like I need to define a term. This may seem like an odd place to define it but you'll understand in due course. There's really no point in reading on if you don't understand this particular word.

Scapegoat.

The word scapegoat has come to mean the fall guy, the dupe, the man who takes the blame. The term derives from a ceremony during Yom Kippur wherein the sins of a people is symbolically placed on a goat who, being a goat, has surely not sinned, and is banished into the wilderness, separating the people from their iniquities and most likely being eaten by a pack of hungry wolves.

Bear that in mind as you read on for it is crucial to understanding the story I am telling.

So I threw open the door and what did I find behind it but a girl. A girl with thick curly hair, crossed arms and eyes that stared unwaveringly into mine.

"Who are you?" I asked, crossing my arms to match.

"Hermione Granger."

"Shouldn't you be in a bomb shelter?"

She shoved past me. "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm not one for rules," I replied, watching her sinewy body as it stepped toward the matron's old wooden desk.

"Fancy that," she said, turning back to write upon me with her venomous gaze. "Neither I am." As poison leaked from her irises, I held my stare with hers, trying to recognize her, to uncover what horrible wrong I must have done for her to look at me that way but I had never seen this girl before.

"Why are you here?" I stepped closer to her and though she did not step back, I felt even further away from her. Unable to touch her.

"I'm an orphan. This is an orphanage, is it not?"

"I'm not sure there are any more beds," I lied, hoping to get rid of an extra voice I would have to listen to. An extra moron I would have to contend with.

"I will sleep on the floor. You going to tell me that you've somehow run out of floor?"

I furrowed my brow, searching for a crack in her demeanor, a place I could break through and find out who she really was but it was like staring a brick wall.

"You realize I don't run this place."

She jumped onto the desk. "Then I'll just wait here for whoever does, Tom."

I shook my head, wondering why I ever opened the door, then it crept up on me like a shadow. "How did you know my name?"

Her pink lips stretched into a smile. "I guessed. It's such a common name."

I felt a flare in my chest, like a lick of dragon's flame. It's such a common name.

I was not common.

Tense, I whipped my head back, snarling. My cotton shirt and suspenders felt tight against my chest as I straightened my back. "Well, Hermione Granger, you are going to regret the day you came here."

She laughed, slid off the desk and looked me straight in the eyes. I was close enough to kill her. She was close enough to kill me. "No, Tom Riddle, you are going to regret the day I came here."

I don't.

A/N: I wanted to try my hand at Tomione, a new favorite ship of mine. Sorry for some of the other dramione/snarry fics that I haven't updated recently. I just had this idea and had to write. Please review and let me know what you think. Thanks!