Of Roses and Thorns

Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I disclaim.

October 1, 1943

"I think I'm in my 6th year." Hermione mumbled, her fingers nervously clenching and unclenching. Interest piqued, Albus—Uncle Albus now, she supposed—stopped walking and turned to her, the desire to be on time for dinner pushed to the back of his mind.

"You remember something?" His voice was meant to be controlled, Hermione could tell, but he was so invested in her well-being now that he could not quell the slight strain in his voice. This, for some reason she couldn't yet explain, brought her immense comfort. Whoever she used to be, she trusted Dumbledore with her life.

She bit her lip, unsure of how to go about explaining her "gut-feeling". It wasn't that Hermione remembered her life prior to the moment she awoke in his office, but she did just know certain things. Just like she knew how to breathe air, blink, and speak, certain feelings and beliefs came to her just as naturally. This was one of those things. "No, I don't have any memories that tell me anything, but I just know that I've never had my 7th year. I can't even begin to explain it. My heart gives this sad little twist every time I try to think about it…" She trailed off, suddenly concerned. What had happened to her that made her emotions react so strongly to the mere thought of a final year of Hogwarts? Perhaps her forgotten self was merely reluctant to leave the school? She knew so many facts about Hogwarts, knew the school inside out, and certainly felt like she loved the great castle. Hermione, for the sake of her sanity and the well-being of her forgotten self, hoped that was the case.

Uncle Albus' eyes twinkled merrily as they were often wont to do. "My dear, I should certainly hope that of all the creatures in this world, you trust yourself the most. If your heart says it's so, then it must! Now, let's hurry before we're late to dinner; Headmaster Dippet does work himself into a tizzy when it comes to tardiness." Smiling up at the man, Hermione nodded and they continued on their way along one of the many hallways of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Tom was not in the best of moods. He was put out with how angry he was, considering how swimmingly the past first month of school had gone. That he wasn't happy only added fuel to the fire. After all, he was healthy, powerful, beautiful, and if all that furious scribbling he did in his journal all time amounted to anything, it would only go up from there. So why was he so angry?

Don't ask Tom, he couldn't tell you even if he were so inclined. This of course only incensed him further.

Next to him, Walburga Black sent him a wary look. "Your foul disposition is giving me a migraine."

"What shall I do for it, Miss Black? Will you have me move seats so I don't cloud up the aura of this portion of the table? Shall I switch schools?" Tom was not normally one to speak before thinking, but his patience was worn so thin nothing could be done for it. "I am not in a particularly blithe mood, Miss Black. I advise you to take care you don't contribute to the foulness of my disposition."

Walburga, though unaccustomed to being snapped at by Tom Riddle, merely blinked to indicate her displease at being addressed in such a manner. Nevertheless, she remained silent and focused her attention to the front of the room. Her relationship with Tom had always been a rather good one; they found in each other a worthwhile ally and more or less intellectual equals (though Tom was always mindful that while she was better than him in blood-status, he was the superior for he was a male, the heir of Slytherin, and the most powerful wizard to have ever lived), but she did have an awful habit of forgetting herself and making rather crass statements.

"I just want dinner already!" Orion whined from across Tom. "Where in the world is Dumbles? I'm starved!"

Immediately, the doors burst open and Tom, knowing Dumbledore had just entered, lowered his gaze to the Peverell Coat of Arms on his family ring. Dumbledore was not worthy of his attention. Tom suddenly felt his world give a lurch and he thought he might be sick right then and there, but it passed just as soon as it had come and he scowled, chalking it up again to his "foul disposition" and the hunger threatening to kill him. At the front of the Great Hall, Dippet cleared his throat, clearly about to speak. Confused as to why (the Headmaster only ever spoke at the first dinner of the year and the last and only during emergencies did he deviate from the norm), Tom raised his eyes to the front and watched the Headmaster, careful to keep Dumbledore out of his line of sight.

"Good evening, students." The Headmaster—a fool, Tom thought with a small measure of contempt—cleared his throat. "I apologize for the rather late start to our meal, but I suppose not even the great among us can keep from the occasional tardy here and there, hm?" At this, he sent a rather pointed look in Dumbledore's general direction which the other man was more than happy to ignore. "Well," Dippet continued, as if his rebuke had not been completely blown off. "I'm pleased to, uh, introduce a new student to Hogwarts: Professor Dumbledore's own niece, Hermione Dumbledore!" The doors of the Great Hall opened with a creak and, his interested captured, Tom turned his head. Of course the other students had decided in that moment to stand, effectively blocking his view of her as she walked towards the Headmaster, but he'd be granted view of her soon. Besides, how interesting could some girl really be?

"Get a look at that hair!" Lucretia whispered to her cousin sharply, as if the girl's hair were made of trash. "It's as if she doesn't have anyone to brush it for her!" At this, she and Walburga burst into soft giggles. Tom often admired Walburga's wit and intellect, but he just as often forgot that she was as shallow, spoiled, and vain as the rest of them. Bored and hungry, he decided his wasn't so interested in this rude new girl who prolonged the wait for food with her sudden arrival. He scowled at his family ring.

He hated rude just as much as he hated waiting for food.

May 2,1998

In simpler times, when Draco Malfoy knew his place in the world—and everyone else's—he, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and sometimes Zabini often liked to play a game they invented called Wizards and Mudbloods. The game came to them the summer after their first year when, to their dismay, they were told that not even their daddies could bribe the Ministry into overlooking their occasional use of underage magic. Over time, the game got more difficult, complex, and far more violent as the boys grew bigger and more cunning. They learned to set traps, how to hide well, when to strike, and how to use the enemy's weaknesses against them—all without the use of wands. Draco smiled to himself. He and Crabbe always chose to play for the Wizards, the "dark" side, and the one time they were nearly forced to play for the Mudbloods, otherwise known as the light side, the two threw fits and threatened to quit the game. It didn't matter that they always lost. Neither boy ever once switched sides.

"No fair, we always have to play Mudbloods!" Nott complained, running a hand gingerly against his black eye, courtesy of Vincent Crabbe. "You and Crabbe switch with me and Greg."

Draco had smirked at the taller boy. "Fat chance, Wanker. My house, my rules!" He declared gleefully. "You'll never see me switching sides." Nott and Goyle groaned at his response and stomped off to prepare for the next round of play.

Draco let out a bark of laughter. How ironic, he thought as he sat alone in some empty hall way on the fourth floor of Hogwarts. Their childhood game had become reality and now the stakes were higher than a handful of galleons and bragging rights. It was life or death now.

In all honesty he wasn't surprised that Crabbe had died from his own hand. In their games he often got reckless—the boy was notoriously impatient—and would fall for the traps set by the other boys or he'd set some half-assed trap and respond in anger when it failed to capture the other team. Draco smirked. How funny life was, showing them Crabbe's fate ages ago.

He was surprised, however, to find that he wasn't all that devastated about the death of his friend. He thought that maybe Crabbe hadn't meant much to him or he was no longer capable of any emotions. Did that make him evil? Draco wasn't sure, but he found that he didn't really care either way. He had more pressing matters to deal with, after all.

The Dark Lord had called a one hour armistice. Draco wondered what his parents were doing. Were they trying to figure out how to get to him? Were they going to leave him? His thoughts drifted to the Golden Trio. Were they going to give up Potter? Draco figured they would on account of how into saving the world and—he scoffed—noble they all were. On the other hand, would they be so quick to give up their savior? They'd try to find a loophole of some sort. Can't have their precious Potty dying on them, after all, no matter how many of their side gave up their lives trying to save his. Draco shifted, his position uncomfortable.

He frowned. Given the chance, he knew he would not be able to give Potter up to the Dark Lord. He couldn't put a finger on it, but something told him that to do so would definitely ensure his premature death. Whether it was at the hand of the enemy or the Dark Lord's, he didn't know. Perhaps they were one and the same now.

So there he was, trapped among the dead and the living, all of whom hated his guts. Out there on the Dark Lord's side wasn't any better. Draco leaned his head against the wall and let out a huff of air. Neither side would hesitate to end his life, Draco knew.

What were they fighting about again? He laughed dryly, knowing that whatever it was, he didn't give a flying shit anymore. He just wanted to see tomorrow.

He dropped his head into his hands. This whole war was pointless and for once in his life, Draco Malfoy was considering switching sides.

October 1, 1943

"Ravenclaw!" The Sorting Hat declared after a ten minute deliberation. In those ten minutes, Tom had plenty of time to hate this girl, plan his revenge on her for making him wait to eat, and listen to Cygnus and Orion whine about being hungry. Other houses were still standing, blocking the new girl from his line of sight, but if Lucretia's rather vivid description was anything to go by, the girl was horribly disfigured. Tom had more than a few brain cells to rub together and knew Lucretia tended to exaggerate. Tom's curiosity was squashed the moment his stomach growled.

The Ravenclaws, thrilled at the prospect of having a Dumbledore in their house, burst into wild applause. Tom fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was hardly that exciting. Headmaster Dippet tut-tutted and wished everyone a good dinner. Immediately, the plates on the tables filled with food and Tom felt a surge of pleasure at the sight. Bless Merlin..

He was reaching for the meat pie when the new girl, on her way to the Ravenclaw table, walked into his line of sight. Tom felt the world shift from under him and he froze, all thoughts of food forgotten. His eyes drank her in hungrily. It was her: the witch who plagued his dreams and haunted his childhood. A slow grin made its way on to his face. As he watched her getting comfortable in her seat and talking to those around her, he couldn't help but release a soft chuckle.

She wouldn't get away from him this time.

A/N: Oh yeah, you can definitely look forward to some Hermione and Tom interaction in the next chapter! As always, thank you to everyone who read, added this story to their alerts, favorited, and reviewed! Speaking of reviews..

STRAWBERRYLUV: Haha, he is a pretty tortured soul, isn't he? All that's missing is the hair flipping and the gothic novels. I think my characterization of young Tom Riddle is more light-hearted and slightly more pompous and egotistical than the usual. He's still the future Dark Lorrd and he's very dangerous (and evil!) regardless of his sense of humor, but he doesn't take himself as seriously as one would expect.