The magic of Hogwarts thrummed when Albus set foot on the grounds, warmth ghosting over his skin in greeting. He blinked in surprise as a sudden awareness of the castle bloomed in his mind, ancient magic shifting to recognise his authority over the school's enchantments and defenses.

Hogwarts was welcoming him as if he were headmaster.

Albus tilted his head up with a smile. "You never cease to amaze me, old friend. How did you know?"

A ripple ran through the wards, a sense of smug satisfaction in the air; Albus chuckled as Hogwarts preened under the praise. How remarkable, for it to be able to detect temporal anomalies such as himself… or perhaps he was more of an interdimensional anomaly? Either way, the castle seemed well-aware that he was not quite the same professor he had been when his younger self had left the grounds this morning.

"Let's keep this between us, shall we?"

A low hum of magic rang out and then fell silent. Agreement. Albus inclined his head, glad not to have to explain himself to the current headmaster. Thankfully, one could always count on Hogwarts' secretive nature—it would keep his secret as well as those it kept on behalf of nearly a thousand years' worth of students and professors.

Hogwarts was, at heart, a safe haven. It neither tattled nor judged, it only listened.

It was part of why they'd always fit quite well together. As many people throughout his life had snarled at him at one point or another , Albus was far too fond of secrets, too.

Though 'fond' was the wrong word—after all, he'd never much liked having no one to truly confide in. But after his rather disastrous first choice of confidante, options had always been sparse. Or maybe, he reflected, he'd never again trusted himself to choose well.

Was there anyone in 1938 he could turn to with his tale of the future and a boy destined to become a Dark Lord?

Lost in thought, Albus let his feet carry him through the familiar hallways, only to find himself in front of the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office. He smiled ruefully at his mistake and turned back around, making his way toward Minerva's office instead.

It felt rather unreal, to step into a room that had not existed in forty years. Oh, certainly the physical space had never gone anywhere, but Minerva—transfiguration prodigy that she was—had transformed it to suit her own tastes, imposing order on Albus's chaos.

And what glorious chaos it was.

He could not help but smile at the overflowing bookshelves lining the wall and the half-constructed magical gadgets littering just about any available surface. The window sills were decorated with spectacularly flopped transfigurations, courtesy of his students. Earning a spot in this little hall of fame netted them ten house points for creativity, and he was careful to only select from students who welcomed such attention with good humor, avoiding those who took failure too hard.

A whisper of giddiness rose when Albus realized he would soon have the opportunity to be a teacher once more, a true pleasure that had been lost beneath too many mounting responsibilities over the years.

Though he did not look forward to the precariously stacked pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk. At this time of year, Minerva, with her ruthless efficiency, would already have crossed her 't's and dotted the 'i's on most of the preparations for next year's term. Albus, with his tendency toward procrastination, knew the bulk of the work was still ahead of him.

He tilted his head when he noticed a paper ball on his desk. Bad news that he'd crumbled up in frustration? He reached for the wand hidden up his sleeve and smiled. While he could have smoothed the paper by hand, Albus found himself wanting to feel the playful magic of his old friend—vine and phoenix feather, so long ago broken in battle. A wand for those seeking greater purpose , as Ollivander had told him on his eleventh birthday.

"I'll take better care of you this time," Albus promised, and it warmed under his fingertips. With a wordless flourish, the paper ball unfolded to reveal a newspaper clipping and a note.

GRINDELWALD SCHLÄGT WIEDER ZU

Steigende Todesopferzahl gefährdet das internationale Geheimhaltungsabkommen

Frowning, his gaze drifted to the note written in his brother's messy scrawl.

Your boyfriend's been busy. Ever feel like getting off your arse and doing something?

"Helpful as ever, Abe," Albus said with a sigh, vanishing the missive with a flick of his wand. It would be wrong to say that Aberforth's anger had faded over the years, but it had cooled into a cordial if frosty distance. During Gellert's reign of terror, however, his fury had been a firestorm, constantly lashing out and burning everyone who stood too close.

Gellert…

Another of his mistakes to clean up. He—no. One problem at a time. Albus would think on what to do about Gellert later; Tom was the more time sensitive matter to contend with.

The first time he had lived this day, he had left Wool's orphanage to deliver two more letters, and spent the next day on four more. Prospective muggleborn students were contacted at the very beginning of the summer holidays, to give them time to adjust to the idea of magic and allow them opportunity to read up on their new world. But those letters had gone undelivered today, and would have to wait a few more days still.

It rankled to have to prioritize Tom Riddle's wellbeing over welcoming those Voldemort had sought to cast out.

Albus sank into the chair behind his desk, his gaze straying to one of the corners of his office. It was empty save for some shelves lining the walls, but he knew that one day there would be a bird perch standing there.

But not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

Fawkes had joined their magic and lent him strength in an hour of desperate need, when Albus had been about to face Gellert. With changed circumstances, there was no guarantee the phoenix would choose to become his familiar again.

For the first time since he found himself resurrected, Albus allowed himself more than a moment of grief. His memory of Death's realm was fading like a half-forgotten dream, but he could not forget what he'd seen of the war after his death. Hogwarts burning, its students dying. Severus, seeking solace in Lily's eyes as he slowly bled out from wounds inflicted by Nagini. Harry, walking to his death on Albus's orders…

All because Albus had failed to stop Voldemort's rise when he'd still had the power to do so. And although it was too late to make a difference in the future he had left behind, Albus wanted to see what could have been, if entire generations had not been lost to a madman's war.

"Did I choose the right path?" Albus murmured, though Fawkes was not there to hear the forlorn question. "Is it foolish to try to spare the boy?"

He shook himself out of his brooding; there was no time for such dallying.

Though Albus had still been rather rattled by his time-displaced resurrection, the first meeting with Tom had gone surprisingly well. He'd focused on building rapport rather than discipline, and the gamble had paid off. When not shut down with hostility, Tom had been remarkably eager to please, a sight Albus had found somewhat unsettling.

What was more unsettling still was the discovery that Tom was lonely.

For all that Voldemort had lured many of his initial followers with charming promises, the Dark wizard had only ever sought servants, not friends. Albus had presumed this to be an innate quality of his character. And yet this younger version of him had a mind shining with quiet hope that he would soon get to meet other special children who would understand him as no one at the muggle orphanage ever had.

It was humbling to find that after knowing and studying Tom Riddle for over half a century, Albus had not understood him as well as he'd thought.

Was it the ostracization that came with being a Slytherin of uncertain blood status that had convinced Voldemort it was best to stand apart— above— in self-imposed isolation? Albus knew the first years of Hogwarts had been difficult for Tom, though he could only guess at what he must have suffered. Slytherins closed ranks around each other, never divulging their conflicts to outsiders. And Horace, too ashamed to admit complicity, had always been reticent when asked about this time period.

While the boy he'd met today had taken some steps towards darkness, he was not yet wholly consumed by it. Something must have happened to extinguish that still flickering light inside of him, and if it was preventable…

Then perhaps there truly was hope for a future without Voldemort, one in which Tom Riddle's considerable talents were channeled toward greater causes than the base pursuit of power and immortality. One in which he wouldn't ruin himself through Dark magic and nobody would ever bear his mark like branded cattle. A world in which Harry Potter could grow up without the weight of a prophecy hanging over him, safely within the arms of the loving family he so deserved.

Unlike the one I saddled him with .

If he changed Tom's fate, then Harry–

Thomas , Albus reminded himself sternly. He would need to get used to the new name. Having used 'Tom' to needle Voldemort at just about every opportunity, Albus knew very well how much power names held in the boy's mind—and how much damage he could inadvertently inflict by using the wrong one.

His first priority would be to get Thomas away from the orphanage. But where to take him? Who would be able to not just rein in a child as difficult as him, but show him the love and care he lacked?

There was, of course, Albus himself—but he wasn't sure if he trusted his own ability to separate the boy from the man he might grow up to be. The war with Voldemort was too fresh in his mind for him to easily set aside his animosity. For all that he had witnessed its tremendous power in the lives of others, love had never come easily to Albus.

But perhaps… yes.

There was someone who was perfectly positioned to mend the deep wounds festering in young Thomas, someone who might even be happy to take the boy in once informed of his existence—assuming he did not already know.

With the boy still a lonely child, perhaps it was not too late for his father to reach out to him.

Tom frowned in dismay when he realized that the bottle of Rémy Martin he'd been looking forward to was already empty. He could not quite remember finishing it, nor did he know why his past self had decided to place it back into the cellarette. Perhaps a futile attempt to evade Mother's nagging; she'd been rather vocal lately about his drinking habits whenever she spotted evidence of them.

Deciding to fall back on a bottle of Old Forester instead, he thoroughly examined the seal for signs of tampering and, once opened, took a careful sniff. It smelled like Bourbon ought to; not a hint of that harrowing scent of old parchment and fresh grass after rain. Satisfied, he returned to his desk, bottle in hand.

Ice cubes clinked against the inside of a snifter and amber liquid soon followed. Settling into his chair, Tom unfolded that day's edition of the Financial Times. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a sip while letting his gaze roam over the articles in search of anything unusual. The tension drained from his shoulders as a pleasant haze set in.

A knock disrupted his routine.

"Mr. Riddle," said an unfamiliar voice, and it was only when the heavy door to his office was pushed open that he was able to place it. The new maid poked her head in, displaying some truly abominable manners. The cook's niece, if he was not mistaken. Fiona? Fran? It would come to him. "There's someone here to see you."

Tom's gaze returned to the newspaper in front of him to refrain from glaring at the girl for an interruption that was not her fault. "Who?"

"He said his name was Albus Dumbledore, sir."

"Well, tell Mr. Dumbledore to make an appointment like a civilized person. I'm not in the habit of receiving strangers at this hour."

"Yes, sir." The maid finally remembered to curtsy, and hurried away.

Tom was in the midst of pouring another dram when a hesitant knock sounded once more. He sighed and leaned back to stare at the ceiling of his office. "He's not going away, is he?"

"No, sir," came the sheepish reply from the other side of the door. It swung open, but the maid—Faith, he remembered now—dallied on the threshold, nervously kneading her skirts. "It's—well, he said it was about your wife. Sir."

After a moment of silence, Tom icily said, "My wife?"

The maid flinched, her cheeks reddening. "I meant—it's what the man called her, Mr. Riddle. He might not have heard about the..." She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper, as if she was speaking of a shameful secret rather than his hard-won freedom. "...the divorce."

Tom kept his face blank, knowing that any overt reaction he showed now would be the town gossip by next morning. In a village as small as Little Hangleton, any new tidbit about his scandalous marriage spread like wildfire, never mind that he'd last seen her over a decade ago. It didn't help that he'd ignited the rumor mill anew last year, when he'd used the passing of the 1937 Matrimonial Causes Act to file for divorce on grounds of desertion.

After years of unsuccessfully pursuing an annulment, the loosened divorce restrictions had been a boon. Finally being able to sever any and all legal shackles had been worth the stain of a divorce upon his reputation.

It wasn't like it could get all that much worse, after all. No, that hateful witch and his frankly deranged behavior upon his escape had taken care of that. Openly babbling of love potions and enthrallment had not been his brightest moment. It didn't matter that he'd learned to parrot all the right excuses for his behavior since—it had never been forgotten nor forgiven.

Despite the demure posture, there was a glint in the maid's eyes. She stared at him like he was an exhibit at the zoo about to do something entertaining. Come one, come all, and witness the madman unravel at the mere mention of his ex-wife.

"Fine, send the man to my office, then," he said in his best bored drawl. When the maid left with a nod and a curtsy, Tom sank back into his chair. He finished the rest of his glass in one smooth motion, drowning a creeping tendril of fear in liquid courage.

A man here to see him about his ex-wife… on her behalf? No, surely not. Who would she even send? Having grown up in complete isolation with her deranged family, Tom knew quite well just how spectacularly inept the witch was at handling other people. But then, she could have found herself a new slave to enthrall…

He shook the paranoid thought off. No, this was probably just some fool's ill-conceived bid for attention. Or perhaps a solicitor with yet more paperwork regarding this disastrous affair. Yes. If there was one certainty in life, it was that there would always be ever-more layers of tedious bureaucracy.

Caution still bid him to unlock one of his desk's drawers, fingers closing around the comforting weight of cool metal. Taking a calming breath, Tom stuffed echoes of Merope back into the recesses of his mind where they belonged. But once stirred, the hateful memories refused to stay quiet.

My life for yours. If I die, I'll make sure he finds you.

It was a curious thing, to walk the winding paths of a manor that Albus had only ever known as a decrepit ruin. By the time he had first set foot in the Riddle's residence, it had stood empty for decades. The floorboards had been rotting, the remaining decor coated in thick layers of dust, and many of the windows had been crudely boarded over after having been smashed. Though echoes of luxury had been evident in the architecture, decay and neglect had concealed that in its prime, the muggle manor was a splendor to behold.

How it must have infuriated Voldemort to find his way here after a lifetime of neglect and poverty. At only sixteen years old, the depth of his rage had been enough to sustain three killing curses. How differently might Thomas react when faced with a warm welcome here at age eleven?

Albus had not intended to come to this place tonight, yet the more he contemplated the matter, the more he realized there would never be a more opportune time. Rage and resentment left unattended only grew, and a confrontation between father and son was inevitable, of that Albus had no doubt. Given his obsessive and curious nature, Thomas would track down his namesake sooner or later, just as he had in the original timeline. It was up to Albus to engineer the best possible circumstances of the meeting so that it would not result in anyone's untimely demise.

There would never be a version of Thomas more inclined toward filial gratitude than one whose father had come to take him from the orphanage personally. Which meant he had to take the measure of the man tonight, before Albus made his own offer of custody.

Of course, this idea hinged on Riddle even being interested in the wellbeing of his son. If Voldemort had inherited his sunny disposition from his father, this would be rather unlikely. On the other hand, aristocratic muggles treasured their bloodlines and families almost as much as purebloods did. Information on the elder Riddle had been far too sparse for Albus to predict his reaction, requiring a closer look.

The knowledge of what exactly had happened between him and Merope Gaunt had died with the two of them. By the time Albus had started investigating Voldemort's background, there'd been little more than scraps left to collect. Most of what he knew about Riddle had come from a muggle doctors' notes, detailing the 'delusions' the patient supposedly suffered from.

The notes made it clear the man despised Merope, but there had never been mention of a child, let alone his feelings on the possibility of one. Albus had known too many people trapped in miserable marriages who considered the resulting children their only bright spot in life. It'd be doing Mr. Riddle a disservice to assume he would not love his son because of his mother's actions, especially since his presence in Thomas's life could serve to soften the boy's attitude toward muggles.

Should the meeting go poorly, Albus could attempt to hide the trail leading to the Riddles entirely. But considering that Voldemort had never learned the art of surrender, it was unlikely that Thomas would give up easily. He would just keep digging and digging until he inevitably found something. Whatever trust Albus might have managed to build by then would be severely damaged. It was a last resort he would like to avoid if at all possible.

"Mr. Dumbledore?"

Albus blinked, evidently having been too caught up in his thoughts to notice the Riddle's servant girl he'd been following had come to a halt in front of an ornate oak door. Smoothing her skirts and looking rather nervous, she said, "Mr. Riddle is expecting you."

"Thank you, dear," he said with a smile. "You've been most helpful. Might I ask your name?"

"I'm Faith"—Albus briefly marveled at muggle naming conventions—"and you really shouldn't be keeping Mr. Riddle waiting, sir."

"Is he an impatient man?" Albus asked, curious what his servant had to say about her employer's character.

Placid tone belying the sharpness of her words, she smiled. "I really couldn't say, but I am an impatient woman."

"A very fair point."

Bidding Faith goodbye with a nod, Albus turned to open the door.

Familiar eyes met his gaze, the father almost an exact replica of his son before Dark Magic had destroyed the handsome visage. He had the exact same curve of the jaw, the same shape of the eyes, and even the same curl of the lip, hiding anger.

But there were differences too—subtle, but there. His eyes were an icy blue that matched neither the dark brown his son had inherited from his mother, nor the striking red of Voldemort. Riddle looked older than his son ever had—while the Dark Arts had eventually ruined his looks, immortality had prevented signs of aging. Muggles withered so much faster than wizards did, but even by their standards, the silver streaks in Riddle's hair were surely a premature anomaly.

"Mr. Dumbledore, I presume?"

"You presume correctly. Good evening, Mr. Riddle."

Riddle's judgemental gaze roamed over the most dapper muggle suit Albus owned. A good first impression had seemed rather prudent in this case, though judging by the haughtily raised eyebrow, his attire had not passed muster. "And to what exactly do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Since no invitation to take a seat was forthcoming, Albus took the liberty of inviting himself and sat down at the other side of the desk so that they were facing each other. "A rather serious matter, I'm afraid. You see, I am a teacher at a school named Hogwarts"—Riddle's eyes lit up with recognition—"and it falls to me to deliver letters of acceptance to prospective students. I—"

"You're one of them, aren't you?" the other man interrupted, reaching for something in one of his desk drawers.

Albus tilted his head. "Pardon?"

"You're a wizard," Riddle said pleasantly as a click reverberated through the room. Raising a muggle weapon, he aimed its thin metal barrel at Albus's head. "Correct?"

Author's Note:

Tom Sr: ah yes, magic school. so anyway i started blasting

This chapter ended up a lot more introspective than I'd planned - I wanted to further explain Albus's motivations as some readers requested and, well, he's a verbose overthinker. As always, thank you very much for your comments, they make me smile and keep me motivated :)

Translation of the newspaper headline:

GRINDELWALD STRIKES AGAIN

Rising death toll threatens the Statute of Secrecy