Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. He and all characters in his world belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them.
It was a dark day. Years from now, that would be what everyone remembered the most. The sky was overcast, the sun hidden. The entire world seemed to be downtrodden on that day. Maybe that was why the Dark Lord had picked that day for the final battle. Then again, maybe not. Who knows why he chose that day? Maybe he just rolled out of bed and decided that this was the day. Win or lose, this was the day that it would all be over. Either he killed the other side or they killed him. Looking back on it, nothing was special about that day. It started off normally but it ended so different. For that was the day that the Dark Lord attacked Hogwarts itself, and it was the day the Dark Lord fell.
A man stood on the edge of the battlefield, his eyes sorrowfully gazing out among the bodies that littered the ground at his feet. Too many had died this day. Too many families wouldn't be celebrating, but mourning. Far too many.
The Dark Lord had been vicious. He had attacked Hogwarts during a Quidditch game, when all had been on the field watching. Sytherin vs. Ravenclaw. A field of flags and sweaters, green and silver, blue and bronze. Hundreds of spectators, all concentrated on the blue and green dots swerving around the field. Sytherin had just barely pulled ahead when the first spell was shot. A sickly green light hit the Ravenclaw seeker, and the boy fell more than a hundred feet, a glint of gold barely visible in his clenched fist. He had been a second year, he was barely 12. His parents had proudly given him a broom for his birthday.
The stadium stood still for a whole minute as the dark-clad figures marched onto the field, their golden masks glinting. Then from the Ravenclaw section there came a shot, soon after followed by a red light. It hit one of the Dark Lords first ranks. The battle had begun.
For hours, both sides had fought and fallen. Servants of the Dark Lord were merciless, the students woefully unprepared. And yet they did what they could. A hospital was set up near the edge of the forest, and brave little first years ran swiftly through the battle, levitating bodies to and from the camp. More than one first year failed to make it back from a run. And in the end it was the very man that now stood, covered in dirt and blood, that had ended it. It was he who murmured the final curse. He who sent the Dark Lord to his final resting place. And now it was he that searched the grounds, desperately looking for any sign of life. Every one of the Dark Lord's Servants had collapsed already, dead the second their ruler breathed his last. Yet, hope still remained for the students, Aurors and ministry officials that had fought against him. Hope still remained, even amidst the bodies.
The man now came upon a broken bludger, smashed to pieces by a blasting curse. Around it was the shards of a broom. A few feet away lay a body in dark blue robes, the remainder of the broom in one hand, a beater's bat in the other. The man crept closer, wand held tightly in his hand. A mop of black hair met his eyes, and the man sharply held his breath in recognition. The beater's name was Terry. He was a seventh year. He wanted to play professional Quidditch. He had gotten straight O's on his O.W.L.S., and was completely ready for his N.E.W.T.S. by the end of his sixth year. Everyone who spoke with him thought Quidditch would be a waste for the brains that put him in Ravenclaw, but everyone that watched him fly knew that he was World Cup material. He'd been placed on the Quidditch team his second year, as a chaser, but had switched to beater in his third. A gold badge on his robes identified him as the captain. On his school robes another signified that he was the Prefect for Ravenclaw.
The man sadly gazed at Terry. He would have had so much potential. Not even done with his seventh year, he had had invitations to 3 magical universities, including the exclusive Thalen School of Learning in Rome. He however turned them all down, in favor of the letter now resting on his desk, telling him the date of tryouts for the English National Team. Sadly the man reached over and closed the light brown eyes, before picking up the boys wand and lying it upon his chest. The man surveyed the ground around him. The boy was surrounded by three of the Dark Lord's Servants, two with obviously bludger induced injuries, the third with the remainder of Thomas' broom protruding through his chest. At least the Ravenclaw hadn't gone down without a fight.
Slowly the man picked up his feet and continued on, his eyes set on the Quidditch field where all this had started. A lone green and silver banner drifted upon the wind, its edges charred, its center blacked. The man reached up to catch it. It fell apart in his arms, the snake floating desolately to the ground in pieces. The man glanced sorrowfully at the once proud Sytherin banner before moving on. If he was to find anyone alive, he had no time to waste.
The Quidditch field loomed above him as he moved closer, casting a dark shadow in the barely visible glow of the sun. The glowing yellow ball was moving closer and closer to the horizon. The man knew that once the darkness set any chance of finding bodies alive would be greatly decreased. The man quickened his pace, unwillingly going through the gates he had entered many hours before, completely intending to rest and watch a harmless Quidditch game. How wrong he was.
The inside of the Quidditch field was almost completely destroyed. On the far side, a single remaining hoop swayed in the wind before tumbling to the ground to join among the splinters of the other hoops. Several stands had collapsed, their supports taken out. The north gate was completely off its hinges; it was here that the black-clad supporters had entered. It was here that the battle had started. It was also here that the majority of the people had died.
A sight caught the man's eyes. Another dark blue-clad player lay in the middle of the field, his gray eyes staring into the distance, his golden hair ruffled by the wind. In his hand a golden ball fluttered weakly. The man slowly walked over to the boy. At his side kneeled a black haired boy, a dark ring upon his finger, looking to be about in his 7th year. A golden Head Boy badge on his green lined robes declared it to be so. The man laid a hand on his shoulder, hardly aware of how much it was shaking. The kneeling boy turned his head, his dark eyes meeting the man's blue.
"It's over" The man whispered. The boy softly shook his head.
"Will it ever be over Professor? Yes, this Dark Lord is dead, but another one might soon take his place, could he not?" The teen inquired. The man's blue eyes searched the boys. Slowly, he answered.
"We shall hope against all hope that that will not happen, shall we not, Mr. Riddle?" The professor inquired. Tom Riddle looked at the ground, before raising his head.
"Of course sir." And with that he left, walking slowly past the gates. The man watched him go, before bending down to the Ravenclaw seeker lying on the ground. He grasped the boys cold hand, before gently un-clasping it. A winged gold ball slowly rose into the air. The man, reached into his robes, bringing out a lemon drop and sticking it in his mouth, while his eyes steadly watched the ball rise.
And with that rising Snitch rose his hopes. The war was over. He would get through this. He had to be there for his Tranfiguration students. He had to keep his eyes on them, keep them out of trouble. And he certainly had to keep an eye out on young Tom Riddle. There was something about that boy that didn't sit quite right with him.
And with one last gaze around, Albus Dumbledore slowly turned and made his way back to the school, his hand pulling his dark red hair behind his ear, and a tinkle slowly growing in his clear blue eyes.
A/N: This idea came to me when I realized that Grindelwald was defeated in 1945, same year as Tom Riddle was head boy and graduated. It kind of evolved from there.