Disclaimer:

This story contains several lines of dialogue adapted from The Half-Blood Prince and The Deathly Hallows; all credit belongs to JK Rowling.

Peculiar, Albus thought, and then pondered the fact that he'd just had a thought. A muggle philosopher's words drifted through his mind. He thought, therefore he was, and having thus decided upon his continued existence, he opened his eyes.

How marvellous to still have eyes.

He had arms and legs, too, and hands. Two of them, whole and healthy, one no longer a withered husk hanging uselessly at his side. They were the hands of a younger man, the skin smooth and unblemished by the ravages of age.

When his attention shifted to his surroundings, he found himself lying on soft grass - or rather, on vapour that gave the vague impression of being soft grass. The longer he gazed at it, grey mist coalesced into solid matter, colours surging and spiralling all around him until he was lying in a meadow.

A wistful smile touched his lips when Albus recognized where he was. He pushed himself to stand, absently willing burgundy robes into existence to cover his nakedness, and walked toward a well-worn path leading into the surrounding woods.

Memory guided his steps, for he knew that this path led to his childhood home.

He also knew with absolute certainty - yet without the faintest idea of where the knowledge had come from - that there would be someone waiting there for him. Ariana, he knew from one moment to the next, and quickened his steps.

But then Albus came upon a curious fork in the road. His memory insisted that no such fork should be here.

The path to the left held no obstacles. It seemed familiar.

The path to the right was guarded by a Grim. It sat as still as a statue, watching his approach with glowing red eyes.

"Hello," Albus said, coming to a halt.

"Hello," said Death.

There was a bit of an awkward pause as Albus tried to gauge the Grim's willingness to have a chat.

"Where does the path you're guarding lead?"

"To regret."

"And the other?"

"To the ones waiting for you."

Albus hummed. It seemed a rather straightforward choice, and yet one could not waste one's youth as he had without knowing that Death was a master of misdirection.

"Can I turn back once I pick a path?"

"The choice is final."

"Naturally. May I have some time to decide?"

"As long as you wish."

Albus quirked his lips into a small smile. "Would it annoy you terribly if I kept asking questions? I'm afraid curiosity has ever been my bane."

"You have earned the right to ask questions and to walk the path of regret."

"And how did I achieve that?"

The Grim blinked, tilting its head like it was puzzled Albus did not already know. "In life, you held all three of our Hallows."

Albus vehemently shook his head, smile wiped away. "Not all at once. I never united them. I can't be–"

The title he had no wish to claim hung unspoken in the air.

"And you are not," the Grim said, a trace of emotion touching its voice for the first time. "You are but the sixth of your kind. And we should like to look upon those who sought to conquer us and came so close."

"I didn't," Albus whispered. "I gave it up. I knew I was unworthy."

"So you did and so you are. But to your credit, of the six who've done what you have, you are only the second to realize you've erred. So we offer you the path of regret."

Albus arched an eyebrow. "The path of regret?"

"Yes. We know you have many."

"I… yes, I suppose I do. Though I'd rather hoped I might let go of them in your realm."

"That is the natural order of things, yes. You may do so if you wish."

The Grim responded to his further questions with the patience only an eternal being could possess, though the answers remained frustratingly curt. Even after dancing around the topic for what might have been ten minutes or ten years, Albus was no closer to understanding the exact nature of what he was being offered. It was only when he dryly asked whether he would regret taking the path of regret that he learned something new.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It will depend entirely on your choices. Understand that none of your new choices can undo your old ones. Those you left behind will go on living in the world you have helped create."

"Ah," Albus said as the magnitude of the offer sank in. Slowly, he turned his head to gaze at the path ahead, breath quickening. "I see. It leads to regrets, you said..."

"Only one. Though you'll find many others cascade from this pivotal point in time."

Ariana.

For a moment, Albus could not breathe – not that he was truly breathing to begin with. The world around him blurred and shivered, as if in his excitement it had forgotten how to be the forest of his childhood home. It rippled with possibilities, one of the trees dissolving into mist only to reform into the desk at the headmaster's office while a patch of grass sprouted railroads.

Yet his excitement quickly dimmed as his gaze swung to the other path, the one he had meant to walk before being offered this opportunity.

"And what of the ones waiting for me?" he asked softly. The idea of never seeing Ariana again – his Ariana, the one he'd failed so terribly – was intolerable. He could not go off gallivanting to a new adventure if it meant he could never ask her forgiveness. Perhaps she would never grant it, as was her right, but he had to at least try to make amends.

"They will wait for a while longer."

"Only a while?"

The Grim chuckled, an eerie, bone-rattling sound. "All roads lead here, in the end. You will be back. We grant reprieve, never escape."

Albus nodded, wavering between relief and trepidation. The stories he'd devoured in his youthful folly had been rather unanimous: lies were not in Death's nature. And yet, the offer seemed too good to be true – which meant it likely was. This had all the hallmarks of one of Death's gifts designed to punish hubris, a trait that Albus – to his own consternation – had always had in overabundance. But knowing that did not stop him from being tempted, much like he had not been able to resist the Stone.

"If I choose to walk this path, what advice would you give me?"

"Be aware that while success is not impossible, the path ahead is not an easy one. Misstep, and you may create a new world worse than your old one."

"I see."

They both fell silent, the wizard deep in thought while the Grim returned to its vigil. Distantly, Albus grew aware of the world he had left behind. The dead were meant to move on, walk toward their final rest, and not look back. But look back he did, to see what he had wrought.

He saw the Ministry falling, so much more swiftly than he'd hoped; Hogwarts descending into darkness, Severus barely able to stem the tide; muggleborns having their wands snapped before being dragged off to torture and death.

He saw Voldemort victorious and yet never satisfied.

And above all, he saw Harry Potter.

"Where are we, exactly?"

"Well, I was going to ask you that," said Albus, looking around before letting his gaze settle back on the young man beside him. "Where would you say that we are?"

"It looks like King's Cross station. Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no trains as far as I can see."

"King's Cross station!" Albus chuckled. "Good gracious, really?"

"Well, where do you think we are?" asked Harry, a little defensively.

The forest rustled in a non-existent breeze. Not far from them, the flayed remains of Voldemort's soul curled itself into a little ball as if trying to disappear among the overgrown roots. Out of the corner of his eyes, Albus watched the Grim prowl around them, its hungry gaze fixed on Harry. That strange sixth sense of simply knowing told Albus that Harry would never leave this realm if he looked upon the manifestation of Death.

"My dear boy, I have no idea," Albus lied, smiling. "This is, as they say, your party."

When Harry faded from sight, drawn back to the land of the living, the soul fragment wailed. It was a terrible, broken sound, and Albus finally allowed himself to look at it. It resembled a child, and yet it looked nothing like the handsome child it had once been.

"Oh, Tom," Albus murmured, "What have you done to yourself?"

Intellectually, he'd always known that the creation of a horcrux was an abomination. Yet it was one thing to know and quite another to feel the primordial revulsion it inspired. A terrible, vindictive part of him could not help but be glad that, beyond the veil, Voldemort would suffer.

And yet Harry, brave, selfless Harry, who had come so close to dying at the hands of this pitiful creature, had only tried to help it.

"A worthy Master," the Grim said.

"He's too young," Albus said, troubled. "Let him rest."

"He will not be young forever. We can wait. We are patient."

Albus knew better than to try to argue with Death. Instead, he turned back to face the choice before him, though it no longer felt much like a choice at all. There were too many regrets weighing on him, pushing him forward. He had not yet earned his rest. "Tell me this. Is the path a reward or a punishment?"

The Grim did not answer. It only rose to move out of his way.

Perhaps it was hubris, perhaps he would fail. But he had to try to create a better world for young Harry to grow up in, one where he would never have to shoulder the weight of a prophecy.

Decision made, Albus took his first step toward regret.

"Wizard," the Grim said. When Albus turned to look, Death bared teeth as sharp as daggers in a canine grin. "It is both."

The forest shuddered, dissolving into shining mist so bright Albus had to squeeze his eyes shut. When the glare receded, he found himself blinking up at a familiar run-down building.

Ah, Albus thought, feeling rather like he'd just been punched in the gut. Punishment indeed.

With a Hogwarts letter in the pocket of his muggle suit waiting to be delivered, there was no question of what year he found himself in.

The path had taken him to a time far too late to save Ariana.

Tom turned the page of the worn book sitting in his lap, his eyes skimming over the words without interest. He'd liked Jules Verne's work well enough the first time around, entranced by the descriptions of fantastical, far-off places, but there were only so many re-reads he could stand before getting bored.

And he was so very, very bored, having long since exhausted the meagre book collection the orphanage had to offer. In a way, being bored was a good problem to have at Wool's - not that long ago, a lazy afternoon of being left alone would have seemed like the height of luxury to him. But ever since their last trip to the seaside, even the older children had learned to give him a wide berth.

So of course Mrs. Cole just had to ruin his hard-won peace and quiet by restricting his access to the nearby library, babbling some nonsense over "age-appropriate material" and "horrid influence".

Two swift knocks to his door were followed by the sound of rusty hinges creaking before he even had the chance to answer. Speak of the devil. A spark of rage coursed through him at the disrespect to his privacy. How many times did this stupid bint have to walk in on him in his knickers before she could be bothered to wait for his permission to enter? But he did not let his irritation show on his face, tilting his head up with a politely curious expression.

"You have a visitor, Tom," she said and sounded pleased. Every instinct he had immediately screamed danger. Mrs. Cole was never happy when talking to him, and the last visitor she'd brought him…

He never wanted to think about that one again.

"Oh? Who is it?" He imperiously quirked an eyebrow, proud of how calm he sounded. Showing fear was for the weak, and Tom Riddle was not weak.

A bearded man stepped into the room behind Mrs. Cole who, in turn, said something about leaving them to introductions before hurrying out of the room. Tom barely registered her words because all his attention was consumed by the atrocious suit the man was wearing. He'd never seen a shade this aggressively purple before. It clashed terribly with the man's auburn hair.

"How do you do, Tom?" the man said, walking forward and holding out his hand.

Tom blinked, mind still churning while his body - unerringly guided by the muscle memory of manners - offered a hand in return. They shook, and then the man drew up the lone chair in the room to sit at Tom's bedside.

Piercing blue eyes scrutinized him from behind a pair of silver spectacles. Intuition whispered that they didn't like what they saw, yet the man's voice was perfectly pleasant when he said, "I am Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor?" Tom repeated, his alarm growing. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"

The man's eyes twinkled when he smiled, and he shook his head. "Not at all, my dear boy."

It was a kind smile, a warm smile. If Tom had to pick a singular word for it, he'd call it "grandfatherly". He hated it at once because he had no grandfather. What he had instead was a sense for when people were lying to him.

"I don't believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

The words rang in his ears, drawing on that deep well of power inside of him, the one that made him special. But the man's eyes didn't glaze over as they should, and his jaw didn't slacken either - although he did stop smiling.

"I know life has not given you the luxury of trusting strangers, Mr. Riddle," he said softly. "But I am telling you the truth. I mean you no harm and there is no need to use force."

Tom sucked in a sharp breath. But - no. No. Surely the man couldn't know what Tom had just tried to do. He was only reacting to the yelling. Adults hated it when children yelled. Tom could relate; he hated it, too.

Unsettled by the feeling of having been caught, his voice wavered. "If she didn't send for you, then why are you here?"

The man was quiet for a long moment, and Tom could tell he was pausing to choose his next words carefully. The sight of such obvious calculation was strangely calming; it felt more honest than that placating smile. Just as that thought crossed Tom's mind, a shadow of that smile slid back into place, yet the man's eyes remained sharp. Tom was struck by the sudden realisation that he was looking at someone important. Someone powerful.

Someone like me.

"I am here on behalf of a school for gifted children, Mr. Riddle," the man said with a voice like silk over steel. "And I believe you have what I'm looking for. Do you know which gift I speak of?"

"Yes," Tom whispered, a painful hope stirring in his chest. "Yes. I can… can do things. With my mind."

"What sort of things?"

The question seemed almost idle, but Tom grasped its significance at once. This man - this professor - was here to assess whether Tom was as special as he'd always known himself to be. And if Tom passed this test, then he would get to leave this wretched hellhole and go to a place that was worthy of him.

He must impress this man. He must.

"All sorts." Tom's mouth was dry, all of him trembling with excitement, suffused with a sense of kinship he'd never felt before. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

Confession after confession tumbled out of his mouth, secrets he'd guarded close to his chests for years. There was a knowing glint in Dumbledore's eyes as he listened, and he nodded when Tom finally ran out of breath.

"Your control for your age is most impressive."

But the professor was not impressed. Tom could tell.

"And… and I can talk to snakes, too," he offered, trying not to sound as desperate as he was.

"Now that is a rare gift, indeed," the professor said, something in his expression thawing. "A coveted one, too, in certain wizarding circles."

Even though Tom knew it was undignified, he could not help but gape. "Wizarding…?"

Professor Dumbledore smiled, and this time it felt real. "Yes. You are a wizard, Mr. Riddle, as am I. The gift I spoke of is the great gift of magic, which you and I and many others share between us."

Wizard.

Magic.

Tom bowed his head as if in prayer, hiding his face. There was a terrible burning in his eyes. He did not want anyone to see, least of all the first other special person he'd ever met.

"I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

Dumbledore hummed in what Tom hoped was agreement and fell into a contemplative silence, giving Tom some time to wrangle his unruly emotions.

"And you were right, Mr. Riddle. May I call you Tom? Or do you prefer Thomas?"

It took a moment for the question to sink in. Part of him thrilled at the overt familiarity (surely a sign he'd passed the test!) while another grumbled at the prospect of being called by a name he'd never been fond of. But most of him was fixated on the opportunity suddenly presenting itself.

Professor Dumbledore appeared to be under the impression that his first name was Thomas.

And… perhaps it could be.

What did wizards care about what was written on some rubbish non-magical birth certificate?

A new name. A fresh start. He could simply discard the disgustingly mundane name he was forced to share with the father who'd abandoned him.

'Thomas' was still a rather common name, of course, but it had a certain gravitas that 'Tom' lacked. Didn't it? Well, at the very least he'd no longer be part of every proverbial Tom, Dick, and Harry.

Tom– no. Thomas lifted his head with a sly smile and said, "You may call me Thomas, sir."

Tom Riddle was as disturbing a child as Albus had always remembered.

And yet…

He was still, unmistakably, a child. When Tom – Thomas – scooted forward to listen with rapt attention to the description of Hogwarts, there was an innocent wonder shining in his eyes that Albus had never once before seen in him.

What a difference a kind word could make.

In their first lives, Tom had quickly fallen into a flat monotone after Albus's ill-conceived attempt at discipline. He'd maintained a thin veneer of politeness thereafter, taking great care to conceal his emotions from Albus throughout all his years at Hogwarts – to the point that Albus had found himself wondering whether the boy who would be Voldemort had ever even had emotions beyond rage and envy.

Gazing down at the little face shining with happiness, there was no denying that he'd been wrong.

But a few kind words could not possibly be enough to change the boy's fate.

At eleven years old, Tom Riddle was… damaged. Perhaps too damaged. Even at this age, he already took pleasure in tormenting the children around him and had used his nascent magic to kill another boy's pet.

Perhaps it might be kindest of all to act quickly and decisively, to end this threat before it could grow up to be a fearsome Dark Lord.

But to do so to a child…

No.

Albus would not add that to his many sins. Not when it was not yet necessary, might never be necessary, if only he played his cards right.

Not yet.

First, he would try. The odds of success might be abysmal, but then again, the odds of his last plan had been no better.

And Harry Potter had lived.

Perhaps so, too, could Thomas Riddle.