A/N: This fic is only up because I am so hopelessly obsessed with my Rewind characters, so I'm posted the whole thing from Tom'

A/N: This fic is only up because I am so hopelessly obsessed with my Rewind characters, so I'm posted the whole thing from Tom's POV. I know, I'm sad. If you haven't read Rewind, then I'm afraid that this isn't going to make any sense whatsoever, because everything is explained in there. Sorry. Hey, it's good publicity, right? ;D Meanwhile, you Rewind-and-Tom-lovers, here's to you. I love you all insanely.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Backtrack

Chapter One: Peregrine

Tom Riddle sat alone on the Hogwarts Express. He never expected any different. He was glad of it. He didn't work well with other people, and other people didn't work well with him. The only person who still would dare to make contact with him was Eleanor Fionn, the Gryffindor idiot who had been selected as Head Girl.

I wonder how many people she had to bribe to get that position. Tom's lip curled. She probably just batted her eyelashes.

He glanced down at the badge pinned to his robe. It was adorned with the green letters HB. Head Boy. It wasn't much of an achievement. Being the most intelligent in the year only meant having an I.Q higher than that of an infant mosquito.

His breath formed frost on the window. It was raining outside; it always was. He thought it was ridiculous, to travel all the way from Scotland to London, just to come back up to Scotland.

The thought of where he'd travelled from flashed back to him. In his head, he saw a gate – red brick – squawking children and sharp-faced Mrs. Cole –

He tore his gaze from the window, and, simultaneously, his thoughts from where he lived.

Some raucous younger students ran past his compartment. He paid no attention to them. He pulled from his trunk one of his battered, secondhand NEWT-standard schoolbooks – Defence Against the Dark Arts; his favourite subject – and flipped open the first page.

It was three-and-a-half hours and five memorised spells before the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station at Hogsmeade. Tom packed his book back into his trunk and lifted the trunk from the compartment.

The crowds were dying down as the students, all eager to get to school, rushed for the carriages. Tom moved at an even, leisurely pace. Hogwarts was the only place in the world that he enjoyed being in; where he felt at home. Yet, he felt no urge to rush around like a fool to get there.

One carriage was left, as always. Tom allowed his eyes to flicker over to the black winged Threstrals that pulled it, and then climbed into the carriage. Despite it being the last to leave, it arrived at roughly the same time as the other carriages, and he left his trunk for the caretaker to collect, as always. He followed the hoard of adolescents through the Entrance Hall doors, and found a seat near the end of the table, fairly separated from everyone else.

He amused himself by watching the first-years, seeing the fearful awe on every face. He recognised a few features from a few faces, seeing the siblings of people that he knew… and a flash of scarlet.

Frowning, he searched again for the bright redness that he'd seen. It lurked somewhere in the middle of the cluster of first-years.

"Marianne Augustine!" called the Sorting Hat.

A small, chubby girl who looked absolutely terrified stumbled up to the front. She was chosen for Hufflepuff, and the list progressed.

As the number of first-years dwindled down, that crimson became more obvious. It wasn't, as he had presumed, some Gryffindor fanatic who already had the corresponding robes… it was someone's hair.

A girl. She was small, but from her build, clearly not eleven. From the distance, Tom could see little of her, but could distinguish pale features, a long tangle of vivid hair the colour of fire, and an expression of being totally unfazed by everyone staring at her.

"Do not lift your cutlery yet!" Headmaster Dippet called across the Hall. "We have one more to be Sorted. This year we welcome our first ever transfer-student, joining in sixth-year. May we all welcome… Miss Ginevra Peregine!"

Information moved through Tom's brain rapidly, as it always did, each piece being stored separately for later probing.

Ginevra – Italian for Guinevere. Is she queenly? Does she think herself superior to everyone else? She has the right hair colour. Is she from Italy?

Peregrine – the traveller. How fitting.

She's presumably sixteen, possibly seventeen. She's tiny for her age.

Transfer-student? That's ridiculous. Where did she transfer from? Hogwarts has no connections with other schools, save for the Triwizard Tournament. Why is she here?

The Sorting Hat took an unusually long time Sorting her. Tom couldn't help but smirk. The ones that took ages normally became Hufflepuffs – they fitted nowhere, with no personality, so they were put into the idiot's House.

However, she didn't look like the sort of person who would have no personality, so Tom was curious for the outcome.

"SLYTHERIN!"

That was certainly not what he hadn't expected. Gryffindor, at least. Even the girl – Peregrine – seemed slightly alarmed, but then seemed to accept her fate and trotted down towards the table where she was spend the meal-times of the next two years.

Unknowingly, she walked straight past him. He watched her as she headed down the table, looking for a space. She moved with a slight grace, though her step suggested clumsiness.

Peregrine looked left and right. She could probably feel him looking at her. He did that to some people. It was a shame. He didn't know why, but she'd had an effect on him. He expected her to be more than that.

No-one ever be more than that, he reminded himself. The inhabitants of the world are weak, and even the mildest concentrated gaze can chill.

Peregrine sat between Hartwin and Philips, two other sixth-years and began to engage them in conversation. The food arrived, but as Tom ate, he still watched the new girl, interested. He wondered what she was saying. What kind of person was she?

He was halfway through his slab of duck-meat when he noticed that Peregrine was having an argument with Bastet – undoubtedly the most irritating person ever to be placed in Slytherin. Bemused, Tom tuned in.

"I'm sorry," he heard, echoing loudly from the other side of the table – with a screech of her bench being pushed back, she stood, glaring evenly across at Bastet, "but I think you didn't hear me correctly. I don't like you. And I don't think I ever will. So go and sit back down with your make-up and your smug retorts, because standing up here is going to get you demolished."

Though Tom's expression didn't change at all, inwardly, he raised one eyebrow. He was clearly going to find out about her by process of elimination. She wasn't the type to be obsessed with make-up – that much was apparent from the wild tangle that her red hair was. She didn't stand for people like Bastet. She was fierce, and she didn't care about making a bad impression.

…Interesting.

Tom watched, setting his fork down. Who would back down first? The new girl, surely. Bastet was the sixth-year Slytherin Queen, in her own mind. In the first five minutes, surely Peregrine couldn't-

"What's going on?" asked Professor Vander, the Charms teacher, standing to break up the fight.

…And Bastet turned away first.

Tom stared through narrowed eyes. Despite himself, he felt a grudging respect for anyone who could destroy Claude Felina Bastet within five minutes of meeting her.

Peregrine sat, returning to her conversation with Hartwin and Philips, both of whom looking as equally astounded as every other Slytherin did. She didn't seem to notice this, and continued to chatter with them. For the most of it, as Tom watched, she seemed perfectly cheerful and welcoming… however, one comment made her face fall one notch, a flash of extreme sadness echoing across her pale face, and then she was back to being friendly, smiling.

She's sad, but she hides it… for her own benefit, or for others'?

Hartwin knocked a cake-plate into a second-year sitting across from her. This was when Tom remembered that he hadn't finished eating, and continued to fork duck-meat into his mouth.

"Students!" Dippet called, stepping up from where he sat at the teacher's table. "I hope you have enjoyed your dinner, and now, if you continue to your dormitories. Prefects, if you could show the… oh. Bother." Dippet frowned.

Tom inwardly rolled his eyes. You've forgotten to choose the Prefects again, haven't you?

"Head Boy and Girl, and if you could the first-years to your Houses. Tom, if you could show the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs? And Eleanor, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, please."

As Tom stood, he heard Dippet call, "Miss Peregrine?" He ignored this, and located the first-years on both of the tables that he was set to show the Houses of. He loathed eleven-year-olds, but as it was his first duty as Head Boy, he wasn't going to refuse to do it.

"Up those stairs and to the left is the Hufflepuff common room," Tom said uninterestedly, pointing towards a spiralling set of stairs at the end of the Entrance Hall. "The password is vulagrises."

He, at least, found it amusing that the Hufflepuff common room's password was Latin for commoners. Seemingly, none of the first-years spoke Latin, so he left them there.

"Slytherins," he said. "This way."

It was strange to think that, as he descended the cold stone dungeon steps, he wouldn't be coming down here this year, save for Potions. He had every right to – he could now go into every common room – but he simply saw no reason to. His own common room was not only far better, but also more solitary.

Except for Fionn.

"The password is Ophiuchus," Tom left them with that, and climbed the stairs to the third-floor, where the Head common room was. "Condolesam," he said to the portrait of Robin the Rich.

"Certainly, sir," said the portly man, sweeping into a bow. "Enjoy your Headship."

As Tom stepped through the portrait-hole, he narrowed his eyes. Robin the Rich had been foul to him for six years, and now that he was Head Boy, he was practically kissing his foot. It was sickening.

"Hi, Tom!" chirped Fionn, bouncing up to greet him. To his alarm and horror, she flounced closer – and closer – and kissed him on the cheek. "How was your summer?"

"Fine," he muttered – a total lie – and ignoring his suddenly very warm cheek.

There was a silence.

"Aren't you going to ask how mine was?" Fionn prompted after her a second, tilting her head in a silly way so that all of her blonde hair fell sideways.

"No." Tom turned his back on her and made his way up the stairs to the door marked Head Boy – Tom Riddle. He pushed it open and snapped it shut behind him.

Hm.

The Head Boy dormitory was spacious, and apparently, by enchantment, he supposed, decorated to exactly his taste. Dark green. Dark desk, dark wardrobe. He unpacked neatly, and then sat on the edge of the large and comfortable bed.

This is much better than the Slytherin dormitories.

He stood again, and crossed to the bookcase where he'd set his schoolbooks. He took out the Defence Against the Dark Arts book again and continued to read.

About half an hour later, a soft knock came on his door.

"Can I come in?" Fionn's Irish voice asked from outside.

"No." Tom closed his book. "I'll meet you in the common room." This room was strictly his, and he would not stand for it being invaded by other people. He grabbed his cloak from the back of the door – he didn't like being seen in anything less than the full school uniform. It made him feel uncomfortable. Then he headed back towards the common room.

Fionn clearly didn't feel the same way he did about uniform. She sat in only her school skirt and shirt, curled up in the armchair. Her feet were bare.

Tom sat as far away from her as possible.

He didn't like feet.

"We need to organise when the first Prefect meeting is going to be," Fionn told him.

"After breakfast, tomorrow."

She blinked. "…Okay." She leafed through a sheet of paper. "Er… I have the Prefect list here… do you want to read it?" She tossed it onto the table between them.

Taking the list, Tom flipped to the first page. Amelia Brown… Robert Harris… Olive Hornby… Scott Reeve… Antonia-May Durrell… Gareth Coville… Ginevra Peregrine… Jack Swithin…

A frown creased his forehead. Peregrine? But she was new.

"Peregrine?" he asked Fionn.

The blonde shrugged. "I dunno. Ask Dippet, not me."

"Is that all?" he said coldly, setting the list of Prefects and the table and pushing it towards her. He stood. Even three metres away, he was much too close to her feet. It didn't help that the feet belonged to someone he despised.

Fionn looked slightly upset. "Do you hate me?" she asked.

He groaned silently, to himself. He looked away at the ceiling. Why. Why him? He folded his arms and looked back at her lower-lip-jutting-out face. "I adore you," he told her icily. "Now can I go?"

She sighed. "Okay. Goodnight, Tom."

He suppressed a shudder. He hated the use of his first-name. He climbed back up to his bedroom; spared a glance at his waiting Defence Against the Dark Arts book, but instead went to sleep.

A year with Fionn. This is going to be terrible.

xxx

Tom was early for breakfast. He finished his food first, but stayed to watch the owls come in. He liked owls. They could be aloof and cold-hearted and no-one would complain. They could bite people, and then those infuriating aww look at the little birdies type of girls would back off. They could fly – and best of all, they didn't talk.

He never received any post; he never expected any post. Yet, for some reason, he still looked up when the tremendous ruffle of feathers and parchment filled the Great Hall.

He later scolded himself, because while he watched the birds, something happened, and he hadn't been paying attention.

"… They don't matter," Bastet's snide voice rose above the others, drawing him back to reality. "And you don't matter either." She was talking to Peregrine, he realised, and looked over to see her reaction.

It was quite astonishing, actually, how rapidly Peregrine's face flushed from white to scarlet. And then she threw a plate at Bastet.

Tom's eyebrows rose.

Bastet had flung her hands up, so was sadly unharmed, but she still looked furious. "You… you ripped my robes, you little bitch!"

"You have no idea how it feels to lose everything."

Tom barely heard her speak; her voice was so low and lethal that it chilled him. She was definitely not your average sixth-year.

Hartwin grabbed at Peregrine's arm, but the redhead stormed from the Great Hall. Applause from every table followed her, but she didn't seem to care. She disappeared through the door and didn't come back.

Show's over. Time to go.

The Head Boy stood and moved away from the table towards the Head common room for the Prefect meeting. He moved silently, in clear view of everyone, yet somehow not being seen.

Fionn wasn't back from breakfast yet when he arrived. He fetched his schoolbag from his bedroom, dropped it by the portrait-hole, out of the way so that people wouldn't step on it, and then sank into a seat.

The first to arrive was Fionn, followed by the Gryffindor Prefects – Brown and Harris. Clearly when she left, they had pursued her. Then Durrell, Hornby, Coville, Swithin, and Reeve.

Only one was missing.

Peregrine.

After about ten minutes of waiting, Tom heard from outside, "Er. Can I go in? I'm a Prefect."

His eyes narrowed. You need the password, stupid.

Robin the Rich asked, "Do you have the password?"

"But I'm a Prefect. And I'm already late."

Yes, you are.

"Does it look as if I care? I want the password."

"I won't be able to find it, it's in my pockets somewhere. It'll take me years," Peregrine complained.

"I suggest you start looking, then."

There was a shallow groan, then a pause. "Er… conda… no, condel…? Condolesam, that's it," Peregrine said.

"Yes; you may enter."

Tom stood. He hadn't welcomed anyone else, if that was the right word for staring coldly at people as they came in, but he crossed to the portrait-hole.

The painting swung backwards in opening, and Peregrine stepped inside.

xxx

What do you think? Yeah, it's kind of stupid. In this fic, I decided that Tommy was going to be Scottish. I don't know why. In my head, his accent is slightly Scottish, so why not? By the way, if you want a song that literally suits every mood – fights, sadness, happiness, fluff – then try I Need You by Relient K. It's amazing. It works with the fluffy bits better than anything.

Also, I have to say that this is going to be slow posting, because while I skipped ahead to do the fluffiest bits (couldn't resist –wink-), I still have to type up the boring bits, which is actually really hard, because all that space-filling sub-plots that Ginny was involved in, like Scott and Grace and Alden and working out mysteries and Svengali and stuff, he's got nothing to do with… but because he's such a lonely loser, he has no sub-plots. So it's kind of lame, but also really difficult.

Anyway, please review!

Heart, me. x.