The first red rose

Sent out of season

The second red rose

Sent for no reason

The third red rose

Sent for happiness and health

The fourth red rose

Sent for gaining life's wealth

The fifth red rose

Sent for gaining new friends

The sixth red rose

Sent for guiding you through life's bends

The seventh red rose

Sent for praying you never tire

The eighth red rose

Sent for giving you all of your desire's

The ninth red rose

Sent for your happiness in love

The tenth red rose

Sent for hoping I'm your turtledove

The eleventh red rose

Sent for igniting passion and fire

The twelve red rose

Sent for hoping I'm your desire

Twelve Red Roses

Chapter One

It was a warm day on the seventh of September. A cool breeze was drifting past everyone near-by. Students were walking all around, rushing to get wherever it was they were going. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley all passed, Harry in a huff, and Hermione and Ron quietly at his heels. Cho Chang looked on at Harry longingly, and then proceeded to Potions Class. It was a boring and ordinary day, and it was different for no one. Except for one certain Slytherin.

Draco Malfoy stalked down the hall of Hogwarts. He stopped at a near-by window and leaned on it. It was a new year, and he had a new mission—Dumbledore would be dead by the end of this term. He snickered as teachers and students hurried to the classes. He took his own damn sweet time. In a year or two, this wouldn't matter to him anyway. None of these students the others called friends. None of the stupid Potter lovers, or these sickly happy teachers would matter to him. No. He would be onto bigger things—better things.

Draco looked out the window, on looking the large and murky pond. Along the edge of the pond, Goyle and Crabbe, Draco's two goons and friends, were dueling ferociously. This was because Crabbe had done something to cause some kind of ruckus somewhere at some point in his life, and obviously it needed to be settled now. Sometimes Draco wondered if he was different, or if simply everyone else were.

He glared, getting lost in his own thoughts again. Stop it; he said to himself, you need not be distracted! There is a great deal of a task ahead, and you need to be prepared. He continued walking, trying to look confident and cruel. He had just broken up with Pansy Parkinson, and he didn't need Potter or his stupid cronies taunting him. It was enough to be as ashamed of himself as he was.

As he continued his strut, he lost himself again. Could he even do this? Take the life of another human being? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of all doubtful thoughts. Of course he could do this. Voldemort trusted him. Besides, even if Voldemort didn't trust him to do this, he could. And he was normal as anyone else otherwise. He was a normal, sixteen-year-old boy Slytherin. Just with a bigger burden.

As he walked, he looked at the floor. The unique tiling, the amazing sculptures, the grand halls… He may never see them again.

As he was looking at the floor and not looking where he was going, he ran straight into another student. As they collided, she dropped her books all over the floor. "Oh Pheonix Feathers!" She said in a heavy British accent. She fell to her knees and her straight brown hair dropped all around her, like a curtain. It hid her tie and her face, but by her height he guessed he was at least her age, maybe a year younger. "I'm sorry," she sighed, "this always happens to me…" He kicked a book that had landed by his foot toward her.

"Just… watch where you're going next time," he huffed. And then he left her there to clean up her belongings, and he himself went to Defense against the Dark Arts.