Albus Dumbledore's side of the story.
Albus Dumbledore was, he knew, a genius. He was quite sure his NEWT examiner had never seen transfiguration like what he'd done for the practical. It felt good to know that one day, fairly soon he'd be lauded as the genius he was. He'd worked incredibly hard for seven years at Hogwarts, eschewed hobbies or a large circle of friends, to concentrate on being … not an embarrassment to the family. And he'd made sure, given what father had done, to cultivate muggle-born friends, to pay as little attention to curses as he could, consistent with achieving an Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts. And only Defence. When your father was in Azkaban for muggle-baiting, you couldn't go excelling at curses, and not attract the very wrong sort of attention. He suspected the DMLE checked on his headmaster at least once or twice. His little brother, on the other hand, was a lazy-good-for nothing. Albus's mind sheered off thinking about Ariana. Mother was looking after her, and that was all there was to it.
-=0=-
"You want me to what?" asked Professor Albus Dumbledore.
"We want you," said the emissary from the ICW, "To join the fight against the dark lord Grindelwald. His forces are aiding the muggles in their war, and the whole world will end in flames."
'That's not what he wants,' thought Albus. He saw the flames years ago. He wants to prevent whatever that god-awful thing was that ate that city. Those… muggle war dragons. Albus swallowed.
"I'm… I'm a schoolteacher," said Albus. And you have no idea what you're asking me to do.
"You are one of the acknowledged geniuses of our time, Professor Dumbledore. And Nicholas Flamel thinks you are the right person to ask."
Albus felt a stab of fury, which he clamped down on and did not let show. He'd been drunk and sobbing that day, and Nicholas had been a shoulder to cry on and a friendly ear. He'd been a great mentor… and now he'd betrayed that trust. Fucking French immortal.
-=0=-
Albus panted, his left arm aching, his right ankle, he was fairly sure dislocated, and tried to stay upright. Falling over now, now that Gellart was unconscious would… it wouldn't do, it just wouldn't do. He summoned Gellart's wand, which wasn't the one he remembered from so long ago now. It was white and heavily carved, it spun in the air as it arched over towards him, and landed in his hand.
A feeling like falling into warm honey exploded up his arm and filled him, left all his extremities tingling, his ankle no longer bothering him, his breath steadying. He looked at the wand in his off hand, and gave it a quick swish. A trail of golden stars the size of roses shot out. He switched hands, and tried, exploratively, mending the wall behind Gellart. In a trice, the wall was as good as new. This wand, this… pale wand had chosen him, just as it had chosen Gellart. And was charmed, he assumed to relieve pain.
He transfigured the nearest smashed chair into a black iron chain that snaked around Gellart and the end welded itself shut to its other end. Curious. This wand seemed to be making magic easier, which was both remarkable and implausible.
It was, Albus realised, time to drag Gellart to justice. And the thought of anyone murdering Gellart, even though he'd … well, started a war made a part of Albus's heart he thought was long dead ache. Gellart was wandless, in chains. He was quite harmless now – if he was kept locked up, he'd never do anyone any harm, ever again. And for a moment, Albus wondered if it truly had been Gellart that had killed Ariana, or if… one if his spells had done it. He pushed that thought away, levitated the defeated dark lord, and went off to seek justice, and, he resolved, some mercy as well.
-=0=-
Bad dreams haunted Albus, so he started to learn the mind arts, to discipline his mind further… and once he learnt to pull out memories, he slept better, but kept the glowing strands, in neatly labelled vials in a locked cabinet. He could not forgive himself, and he could forget only under the knowledge that he had made bigger mistakes than most people. He collected memories from the war, and labelled them and catalogued them and studied his and others mistakes. He would, he resolved, make less mistakes in future.
-=0=-
Tom Riddle was such a disappointment as a small child.
As a teen, he seemed a slippery little bugger.
As a graduate, Albus was fairly sure he was on a path to being a threat to society – he had the pureblood boys and girls of Slytherin eating out of his hand, calling the muggleborns names, and he suspected, orchestrating the violence that Tom Riddle, Prefect was never blamed for.
And in his darkest hours, in the middle of the night, cold in his bed, Albus knew Tom had lied to Dippet, and that the girl that had died had not died from one of Hagrid's pets got out of hand. But the boy could lie straight out lie to Albus's face; and Dippet couldn't see the cold, calculating side of the neatly groomed, handsome young man. As Tom Riddles' NEWTs neared, Albus tired of the machinations of the Slytherins, and held the boy back after class.
"Yes, Professor?" said Tom Riddle, his hair slicked down.
Albus reached into his robe pocket, gripped the wand, made eye-contact, and concentrated. And … saw nothing. Tom Riddle could apparently shield his mind.
"The staff expect great things of you in your NEWT practicals, Mr Riddle," said Albus, twisting the wand and trying harder to see what was behind those black eyes.
"Oh I do aim for greatness," said Tom, with a faint sneer, lifting his chin a little, making the connection between their eyes even more direct. And Albus felt a presence around his thoughts like a dark blanket.
"Is that all, Sir?" asked Tom. Albus let go his wand and blinked.
"You may go,Riddle," said Albus, leaning back against the desk. How in god's name had Riddle learnt Legelimancy, he was only eighteen?
Tom turned his back and left, utterly carefree. Albus suddenly felt old and tired, even though he still had his best century ahead of himself. That boy, he was sure, was up to no good. No good whatsoever.
Tom Riddle wants a job.
The Knights of Walpagrus
Sybill Trelawney and the pile of bricks that fell on Albus.
And it was, Albus realised with Horror, the poor Potter's little boy. Little Harry.
Once he knew Harry was safe with Hagrid, the only thing was to take him to his family. They would care for, and protect him, and he would one day meet … Albus sighed. His destiny. Poor wee tot. The Potters had been such nice people, well, James had gone from being a pain in the bottom to a decent man, and Lily had been… when she wasn't being a smart-mouthed witch, a diligent student. Why couldn't everyone be like her. Her muggle family, doubtless, were all complete bricks. He imagined them as like his friend Daedalus, but with perhaps less tassels on their foot-stools.
He did need to take precautions though. Lily had … taken some extraordinary precautions, and James had clearly … made the ultimate sacrifice to protect his young family. He would, he resolved, have to take… old-fashioned measures to protect the boy. The Death Eaters had no respect for the sanctity of infants, and killed muggles with foul glee. Albus bottled down his anger, and concentrated on finding a … solution to the protection of little Harry.
It came to him that evening, and, he told himself, they were dead anyway, and would have wanted him to do the very utmost to protect their child. Hagrid was watching over the boy as Poppy fed a confused looking child mashed parsnips and carrots, and Albus knew what he had to do.
Being Chief Warlock and knowing how teenagers got up to no good gave him a perfectly good idea how to… enlist the help of the late Potters. And the cauldron of … ingredients… would ensure the boy was as protected as the vile murderers that sought him. It was, thought Albus grimly, a case of what was sauce for the goose, would work just as well for the gander.
Having spent an evening preparing the muggle building, he sent Minerva to watch – she made an excellent spy in muggle areas, and went back to check on the child, … and remove all memory of what he'd done, from his own mind, just in case. The gory, dark magical details were not important – the boy must live to be a man. The fates had decreed it had to be. Or it was going to be Tom Riddle forever, once he regained his strength and returned to the fray, and the thought of a worse fate for the world than what Gellart had seen, so long ago, ached. Thousands had died in the two wars now. That evil genius had to be stopped forever.
Sirius Black, whom he'd gown to trust, had betrayed the Potters, and killed poor Peter. Albus, feeling hurt and betrayed recused himself from the proceedings. He could only search for proof Tom was dead.
-=0=-
A visit to the Flamels with samples from the Potter's devastated nursery gave Albus the sort of frustrating non-answer Nicholas had spent decades teasing him with. This time from Perenelle.
"Tom Riddle… no. This is carbonized flesh. You cannot find a body because there is no body to find," said Perenelle, looking down a microscope. "Whatever got him, it was a siege-grade enchantment. Are you sure there wasn't a dragon?"
"No dragon," said Albus. "So, he's dead." The idea seemed oddly anticlimactic, and clashed with the prophecy from Sybil.
Perenelle stood up and stared at Albus. "Albus, when someone is blasted to carbonised ash, there is no body left. They are dead."
"Um," said Albus.
"Albus. What have you not told us?" asked Nicholas quietly.
"Um," said Albus. 'The one to defeat the dark lord approaches.'
"Use your words, Albus," said Nicholas snidely.
"There is a prophecy about… Tom Riddle. The one to defeat him approaches… blah blah… and let's say I'm sure it's not me." said Albus.
"Don't tell us the details," said Perenelle. "You should keep that a secret."
"I am trying to," said Albus, gritting his teeth, and Perenelle laughed.
"Look, it's possible to survive bodily dissolution, but the magic involved is extremely evil, and frankly flawed," said Nicholas casually. "The reference, should you need it, is Herpo the foul and not how to make Basilisks. Which are, in case you weren't paying attention, of primary value as potions ingredients, and a banned class of creature under ICW rules."
"We got them banned two hundred years ago," said Perenelle lightly.
"But the clue is, as always, in Tales of Beedle the Bard, first edition." said Nicholas "Chapter nineteen, the Hairy-hearted warlock."
"A children's book." said Albus. Mother had read it to them often, doing silly voices.
"We've spent six hundred years making the world safer, Albus. But for every lock, there must be a key, if only one of those muggle in case of fire, break glass arrangements," said Nicholas. "We nearly lost against Grindelwald, so over time, we've left safety tips."
"But mother read me those when I was an infant," said Albus. "They're just… stories."
"Hairy-hearted warlock, or his real name, Koshchei the deathless," said Perenelle. "Clues for the worthy, not a how-to book."
"You won't just tell me?" asked Albus.
"You have time, and you need to learn how to use Beedle. You may need to tell a youngster one day yourself." said Nicholas. "Nobody lives forever."
So war was over and Albus knew he needed to… do seven hells worth of Dark Arts research to find out what the hell Tom Riddle had done.
No spells could find the son-of-a-bitch, his followers were convinced… dear god the poor Longbottoms, that their lord was missing. But they were convinced he would return. Well, Bellatrix Black was, though she'd never been one for half-measures.
Albus was quite pleased when she and her cronies – dear god Barty's boy! Got life in Azkaban. There would be no Death Sentences, not on Albus's watch… deaths in battle, yes, but he wasn't going to accumulate a death toll like Gellart had. Even wrapped in the fig-leaf of 'justice.' And even Barty wasn't going to execute his own son; his wife sobbed from the public gallery. Albus went home and got very, very drunk.
The need to accumulate horrifically evil texts, and not be denounced as a rising dark lord presented a manifest problem.
It took a long time, and meant he spent very little time at the Ministry. But being the Supreme Mugwump, meant he could be overseas plausibly often, so he trawled European second had bookstores, suitably disguised as Nicholas – his reputation was immortal too.