A/N: I started this chapter back in 2013 shortly after I posted the last, but never finished it. I don't expect I'll ever pick it up again; if anyone else would like to they are certainly welcome! I love Tom-is-properly-raised-by-someone stories, especially with a twist on the usual formula: one cool example of the genre is In the Bleak Midwinter by TheLoud.
Despite my disclaimer, Chapter One skirts the boundary of plagiarism a little too closely for my liking given the amount of text which is excerpted. At the time, I thought it wasn't a big deal because the chapter was meant to serve as a prologue to a much longer fanfiction, but it was making me a little uncomfortable to leave it up without the rest of the story having materialised. But, I did not want to take the story down seeing as a few reviewers had expressed an interest in it. So instead, here is what (very little) I had, posted without any further editing.
2 May, 1935:
Harry Potter Day
Albus already knew the date before he woke up from a nightmare of cackling snakes and red lightning. The Pensieve memories were as fresh in his mind as they had been so many years ago, and the bloodied corpses they contained. The castle was in ruins, and a death eater (Nott? Avery?) cackled as he tortured a young student whose screams echoed throughout the courtyard over curses yelled out and shields desperately conjured. And the scene would shift, and his father would face the enemy, and a bright flash of green would fly from the Dark Lord's wand, and then, the memory ended, Albus's head would rise, trembling, to meet his father's harsh gaze, his green eyes which calmly watched Voldemort's Killing Curse race at them twice yet lived to see again, for a time.
Still shaking, he forced himself out of bed, and transfigured his favorite pair of golden lion slippers to cheer himself up. Slipping them on, his thoughts turned to the boy who doubtless would be seated in the table towards which he was walking, the boy who would kill —
No, he mustn't think like that. That was only the nightmare talking. Voldemort was dead. His son was nothing more or less than Tom Potter. He smiled, remembering that the anniversary of their first meeting was rapidly approaching, and began to contemplate any special actions he might take to commemorate it, when at once he, sitting down absentmindedly, was broken from his mental rambling.
"Good morning, Dad!" Albus smiled at his son, the nightmare already fading from his mind, and transfigured their chairs into velvet seats whose fluffiness surely exceeded the Ministry's legal guidelines. He could, of course, perform a longer-lasting transfiguration, or stop casting Finite upon his creations when he was done sitting on them, but where would be the fun in that? He added a footrest, and the lion slippers gave a content roar of approval.
They conversed merrily for a time, and Albus asked what Tom would be doing that day.
"I'll probably sit in on some classes — Dumbledore is teaching the Gryffindors Transfiguration today! — and probably visit with Harmonia." Who would have guessed that the basilisk Albus's father had fought and slain could be such a great babysitter when the Heir of Slytherin wants her to play Gobstones instead of murder Muggleborns? (Lacking limbs, Harmonia lost almost every game, but she tried her best and Tom appreciated the effort.)
As to the former aspect of Tom's statement, Albus had tried to persuade Dippet to allow Tom to enter Hogwarts early, as the boy had been practicing conscious wandless magic for years, but Dippet had steadfastly refused.
"I don't care if the boy defeats Grindelwald in a duel, Albus! Schooling at Hogwarts begins at age eleven, and I will not be ignoring centuries-old precedent because you think your ward is the second coming of Merlin!"
"Tell her I said hello," Albus said, eyes atwinkle, the last phrase having been said in the basilisk's native tongue.
Tom smirked. "I will, Dad. Though you sshould visit ssometime. Harmonia keepss complaining that sshe wantss to try more Parsselmagic with you."
Albus sighed. "I keep telling hher it iss no different than Latinate magic, or any other kind. The only reasson that I casst new spellss more easily in Parsseltounge iss that the intuition iss built into the language, insstead of there being a sseperate understanding, reduccing the need for much of the theory."
"Issn't that an advantage in and of itself?"
"I ssupose, but it hhas nothing to do with the fundamental nature of the magic. An Expelliarmus casst by a wizard who knowss hiss theory won't be any lesss powerful than that of a Parsselmouth, though Harmonia seemss to think otherwisse."
Before long, they had left Albus's Hogwarts quarters, and parted: Albus going to the Defense classroom, Tom to Transfiguration. Albus would have preferred the Transfiguration post, but didn't want to put his namesake out of a job. He remained thankful that Hogwarts students were conditioned to call their professors by their last names: having two Albuses (Albi?) was already a subject of much annoyance in staff meetings. Arriving at the door to his classroom, Professor Potter prepared to show his class which Albus was the better teacher. Did students get to play Pin-the-Pixie-on-the-Puffskein in Transfiguration? (For some reason, the Puffskeins enjoyed the presence of pixies in their fur, humming louder with each additional menace Stunned and Stuck onto their bodies.) He thought not.
"My favorite class," Albus beamed at the Gryffindor and Slytherin third years, addressing them with the same epithet he did all his sections. In honor of his father's favorite defense class, today was Boggart Day. This particular section always provided the most wonderful variety, the Gryffindors, despite their bravery, often being afraid of the silliest things — rats, spiders, werewolves — whilst the Slytherins tended to fear, more reasonably, dementors and vampires and the like. Abraxan, in a particularly intriguing case, was so afraid of revealing his greatest potential weakness to his peers that his boggart was shaped like... a boggart, which is to say, both everything and nothing. Unsure of how to proceed, he froze, and Albus was forced to take charge.
The boggart paused for a minute second before taking on the form of an indistinct man cloaked in black and shadows. Though his face was unseen, a smile upon the man's face was felt by the students. A wicked, chilling smirk. And then, the green.
Like lightning, green flashes lit up the dimmed classroom. And when the light exploded outward from the boggart, his form was temporarily illuminated. The light flashed thrice: once, the man was tall, gaunt, snake-like, a mockery of humanity whose eyes glowed red amongst the green. Then, glasses were seen on his face. And the third time, the figure began to shrink, and Albus, knowing that a Riddikulus he cast at the moment would be powerless, cried out, Expecto Patronum! and the boggart dissipated like a wisp of smoke.
Albus blinked twice, wondering why it was that, having deliberately set out for his quarters not five minutes previously, his feet had carried him to the gargoyle which guarded the Headmaster's office. For him, no password was needed, and the gargoyle upon seeing him had leaped out of the way, bowing minutely. Albus ascended the staircase and knocked upon the door. Hearing no answer, he entered, and stared at the portraits before him.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing here!" cried Phineas Nigellus. "Trespasser! Thief! I — "
A Stupefy from the former (or future?) Headmaster stilled the portrait, and Albus sighed upon realizing he would have to mass-Obliviate the portraits, the rest of whom were currently eying him cautiously, once finished with whatever he had come here to do.
Albus's eyes set upon a particular spot on the wall. Now, there was nothing peculiar about this spot, no cracks or other such anomalies in its surface, nor was there a portrait hung before it (yet). But Albus remembered, and, though Dippet would never notice, from that day forth there protruded from a miniscule hole a solitary lily, in memoriam.